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July to December, 1891. 

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J^n Illustrated JffontKly 



Vol. II, 


Xonton : 




Original from 


(Illustrations by Sidney Paget.) 

Adventure I.— A Scandal in Bohemia 61 

Adventure II.— The Red-headed League 190 

Adventure III. — A Case of Identity 248 

Adventure IV. — The Boscombe Valley Mystery 401 

Adventure V.— The Five Orange Pips 481 

Adventure VI.— The Man with the Twisted Lip -W3"" 

ALBANI, MADAME. (See" Illustrated Interviews.") C*-> 


( Written and Illustrated by IRVING MONTAGU.) 


BLUE CAT, THE. A Story for Children. From the French of Daniel Dare 210 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) 
BREACH OF CONFIDENCE, A. By Annie Armitt 453 

(Illustrations by W. S. Stacey.) 
BUNDLE OF LETTERS, THE. From the Hungarian of MORITZ Jokai 76 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 


(Illustrations from Photographs.) 
CATS. By J. Maclaren Cobban 131 

(Illustrations by Harrison Weir.) 

(Illustrations by J. F. Sullivan.) 
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, THE. By Private James Lamb, one of the Six Hundred 348 

(Illustrations by W. B. WoLLEN, R.I., and from Photographs.) 

(Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.) 

DAY IN THE COUNTRY, A. By David Christie Murray 642 

(Illustrations by John Leighton*.) 


DOCTOR'S STORY, THE. From the French of Guy de Maupassant 150 

(Illustrations by Gordon Browne.) 

ECONOMICAL CLUB, THE. By J. F. Sullivan 660 

EPISODE OF '63, AN. By Henry Murray 521 

(Illustrations by W. B. WoLLEN, R.I.) 

FAIRY DUST. A Story for Children. From the French of GEORGE Sand 536 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) 

Written and Illustrated by J. E. ROGERS. 

(Illustrations by Alf. J. JOHNSON.) 
FOR AN OLD DEBT. By J. Harwood Panting Odginalfroro. 266 

(Illustrates by G. Hillyard Swinstkad.) UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



{Illustrations by JOHN GULICH.) 


(Illustrations from Photographs by F. W. EDWARDS.) 
GILBERT, MR. W. S. (^"Illustrated Interviews.'') 

(Writ!** and Illustrated by IRVING MONTAGU.) 

HARRIS, SIR AUGUSTUS. (Ste " Illustrated Interviews.") 


1.— Cardinal Manning 52 

(Illustrations by W. H. J. Boot, R.B.A. and from Photographs by Messrs. Elliott & Fry.) 
II.— Henry Stacy Marks, R.A ... m 

(Illustrations by H. STACY Marks, R.A.. and W. S. Stacey ; and from a Painting by P. H: 

Calderon, R.A., and Photographs by Messrs. Elliott & Fry.) 
III.— Madame Albani 219 

{Illustrations by W. B. WoLLEN, R.I., and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.) 
IV.— Mr. W. S. Gilbert 331 

(Illustrations by John GuLlCH, R. JONES, Miss Mabel D. Hardy, and from Photographs by 

Messrs. Elliott & Fry.) 
V. — Mr. Montagu Williams, Q.C 527 

(Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH and R. JONES ; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & Fry.) 
VI.— Sir Augustus Harris 553 

{Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH, and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & Fry.) 


JUDICIAL INNOCENCE. By J. F. Sullivan 322 

KING AND THE ARTIST, THE. A Story for Children. From the Spanish. By Mariana Monteiro 103 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) 
KOJATA. A Story for Children. From the Russian 426 

{Illustrations by H. R. Millar.)' 


{Illustrations from Photographs.) 


LAYING A GHOST. By George Manville Fenn 387 

(Illustrations by G. Hillyard Swinstead.) 
LAST TOUCHES, THE. By Mrs. W. K. Clifford 302 

{Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.) 

LAW COURTS, STATE OF THE. IV.— The Criminal Court 84 


(Illustrations from Photographs by GRIFFITH BREWER.) 
LUCKY COIN, THE. A Story for Children. From the Portuguese of Gonzalo Fernandez Francoso 319 

(Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 

MAJOR PENDALLAS : A Christmas Story. By Frank R. Stockton 589 

{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 
MANNING, CARDINAL. {Su " Illustrated Interviews.") 
MARKS, HENRY STACY. {St* " Illustrated Interviews.") 



{Illustrations by ALLAN BaRRAUD.) 


{Illustrations by John GULICH ; and from Photographs by H. R. SHERBORN, Newmarket.) 


{/.lustrations by JEAN DE PALKOLOGI'E.) 

OTTO'S FOLLY. From the German of P. K. Rosegger ... >-k]inal-from-- 608 

(Illustrations by J. Finnemore and W. H. J. Boot, R^.A^jy ^ 



P. L. M. EXPRESS, THE From the French of Jacques Normand 

(Illustrations by John LEIGHTON.) 
PERILOUS WOOING, A. From the Norwegian of BjbRNSTji kne BjORNSON 

(Illustrations by J. FlNNEMORE.) 




(Illustrations by Paul HaRDY.) 


{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 


437, 549 
... 665 

Amyot, Madame 

.. 607 

Lang, Andrew 

.. 603 

Anderson, Mary 

.. 601 

Mackenzie, Sir.Morbll 

.. 37i 

Bismarck, Prince 

.. 604 

Marks, H. Stacy, R.A 


Caine, Hall 

.. 160 

Maybrick, Michael (Stephen Adams) 

• • 279 

Coleridge, Lord 

.. 603 

McCarthy, Justin, M.P 

.. 369 


• • 277 

Moore, Miss Mary 


Doyle, Conan A 

.. 606 

Neville, Henry 

• ■ 478 

Eugenie, The Ex-Empress 

.. 366 

Norfolk. The Duke of 

.. 154 

Fife, Duke of 


O'Rell. Max 


Fortescue, Miss 

.. 158 

Owen, Professor 

.. 274 

Emperor, The German 


Parker, Dr 

.. 605 

Empress, The German 

'.'. 156 

Roose, Dr. Robson 

... 27rf 

Gilbert W. S 

Grain, Corney 

.. 367 

Russell, Henry 

... 280 

.. 476 

Sala, G. A 


Hardy, Thomas 

• • 475 

Salvini. Tommas,' 


Harris, Augustus 

.. 159 

Smiles, Dr. Samuel 

... 368 

James, David 


Sterry, J. Ashby 

... 157 

Keeley, Mrs 

■• 477 

Tree, Mrs Beerhohm 


Kendal, Mrs 

.. 275 

Warner, Charles 

... 370 

Kendal, W. H 

.. 276 

Yo.nge, Charlotte M 

... 479 

Labouchere, H 

.. 161 

. 328, 440, 550, 666 

437, 549 




(Illustrations by A. Forestier.) 

Discovery of a Curious Creature, The. By J. F. Sullivan ... 

Economical Club, The. By J. F. Sullivan 

Judicial Innocence. By J. F.*Sullivan 



Prize Family, A 

Varieties of Alpine Climbing 

Variations on Two Suits, A 

Visit to Sir Ogre de Covetous, A. By J. F. Sullivan 

QUIXARVYN'S RIVAL. By H. Greenhough Smith 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 


(Illustrations by W. B. WoLLEN, R.I., and from Photographs.) 

ST. NICHOLAS, A VISION OF. A Poem for Children 657 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.) 
SHERLOCK HOLMES. (See " Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.") 



hisWife 46 

(Illustrations by Jean DE PALEOLOGUE.) 

{Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH.) 


(Written and Illustrated by J. H. ROBERTS. 

SONG :" The Winding Walk." (Words and Music by Frank L. Moik; 638 


(Illustrations by A. Ludovici.) 



STORY OF A GAME, THE. From the French of Albert Delpit 141 

(Illustrations by H. HlLLBOM.) 

(Written and Illustrated by H. TUCK.) 

(Illustrations by John Leighton.) 


[Illustrations from Photographs by H. WAYLAND, Blackheath.) 


(Illustrations by R. Jonks, and from Photographs.) 

THREE IN CHARGE. By W. Clark Russell 373 

(Illustrations by W. C. SYMONS.) 


TOLD IN THE STUDIOS. By " Rita "; — 

Introduction. Story the First— " 19 on the line " 352 

Story the Second— " Cigarette " 463 

Story the Third— "Not a Model" 580 

(Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.) 


TWO KISSES : A Christmas Story. From the French of de Bejan 564 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) 


(Illustrations by Alan Wright.) 

(Illustrations by J. Johnson.) 



VISION OF ST. NICHOLAS, A. A Poem for Children. By C. C. Moore 657 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.) 



(Illustrations by A. Pearse.) 
WIFE OR HELPMEET? From the French of Jeanne Mairet 499 

(Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

(Illustrations by J. L. WlMBUSH.) 
WILLIAMS, MR. MONTAGU. (See " Illustrated Interviews.") 

"WINDING WALK, THE." Song 638 

WOKE UP AT LAST. By Kate Lee 9 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.) 


(Illustrations by Frank Feller.) 

m -»-* m .,. — «— . —- -u. ^ 

Original from 

[Tabltwx Vhants.) 

Original from 

Tableaux Vivants. 

p|0 much attention has lately 
been, given to tableaux, that 
it will no doubt be interesting 
to go through the minutiie 
which must be properly at- 
tended to before anything like 
success can be attained. We have often 
seen tableaux completely ruined by an 
awkward piece of mismanagement, clumsy 
grouping, or bad lighting, which, but for 
these defects, would have been very effective. 
Of course, nearly everything depends upon 
the stage manager, who should b^ an ex- 
perienced man, and with plenty of good 
temper and patience, for he has a great 
deal to put up with. And first a word 
or two about the stage. Very often one 
has to be improvised, and in that case it 
is most essential to have a proper " rake " — 
that is, a slope down from the back to 

the front, of not less than one inch to one 
foot, in order that the group presented 
may be better seen from every part of the 
auditorium. In some cases stages are buih, 
as it were, in three tiers, each about nine 
inches to one foot above the other; but this 
is not a satisfactory construction, as, in 
arranging tableaux, quickness is the very 
essence of success, and, in running the pro- 
perties on and off, these tiers get in the 
way. Stages should be firmly and sub- 
stantially constructed. There have been 
cases of collapse, under the united weight 
of scenery and groups. 

Sceneky.— It is contended by some 
people that scenery is unnecessary, and 
only takes the eye from the group in 
front ; but such is not really the case ; and 
where artistic :icerierv is obtainable, relative 

to t^.flvfemf f?F e niiCTi&.fl? t to ° atron 8 1 y 


expressed, and prettily arranged, it is most 
helpful, and, in fact, a sin? qt/ti notu As 
regards the- properties, the stools and 
boxes, of which, generally, a good number 
are required, should be made on purpose, 
of different heights. These are most helpful 
in posing groups ; but the stage should not 
be overburdened with them, as they are then 
only in the way, and make extra work in 

a necessity- As to the limelight, the two 
men who manage this must throw their 
light from a height of not less than six 
feet ; they should be opposite one another, 
and room must be arranged for their 
apparatus and oxygen bottle. It is well 
to have reliable operators for this work, as 
they are not always trustworthy ; and not 
to allow them to leave the stage until their 

removing. It is a gTeat thing, if possible, 
to have these properties so made that they 
will suit all the tableaux to be presented. 

Perhaps the most important subject is the 
lighting. It is a disputed point as to whether 
footlights are advantageous. In the tableaux 
here illustrated they were always used, as 
sometimes it was found that the limelight 
does not reach the feet, and a hard white- 
line is the result. The overhead floats arc- 

work is completed, as should anything go 
wrong with the limelight the tableaux 
would be inevitably rained. On figures 
draped in white, or statuary, the blue 
light is perhaps the best, and altogether 
the most suited to the subject, on account 
of the softness it gives to the drapery : 
and, especially in the case of statuary, 
it has all the appearance and effect of 
marble, ,A> labieau.v are. generally shown 




1 ^ a ' 


'1 ; 


r ^ — ^1 


;i; ; 





i '-%^ 


b<~ =*•>**.:. 




yfi^^.% j 

two or three times, the curtain is rung 
down for a few seconds while another pose 
is arranged. A different lighting effect 
may be used in the second anci third exhibi- 
tions : for instance, in " The Snow Queen " 
(represented in the frontispiece) in the first 
representation, the blue light was used ; and 
in the second a red, and this, of course, com- 
bined with the light from the floats and 
footlights, produced a happy effect. This 
tableau was perhaps the most successful of 
the whole series, which were all put on at 
Blackheath recently, and arranged by Mrs. 
Hart and Mr. W. K. Parker, in "aid of 
various charities in the neighbourhood. 
Those which we have chosen as subject* 
for illustration were very successful, 
and these we will now particularise more 

Special attention was paid to the group- 
ing and lighting. Of course in the case of 
" The Snow Queen " all the dresses were of 
a pure white, in keeping with the subject, 
and a very effective foreground was made 
with some light diaphanous drapery, the 
realism being heightened by some glistening 
powder, known as Jack Frost, thrown over 

the dre?ses of the figures at the last 
moment to represent hoar-frost. This 
tables u was encored every time. 

" The Gambler's Wife"'' is taken from the 
well-known picture. In this tableau the 
colour is pretty evenly balanced, the cos- 
tumes were remarkably good, and every 
detail carefully studied from the original. 
The scenery, too, was a great success, and 
altogether was much admired. 

In "The Summer Shower" the dresses, 
if not quite white, nearly approached it, and 
the mixture of blue and white in the lighting 
was very appropriate. The tableau repre- 
sents three young ladies, who have been 
caught by a shower, taking shelter under 
a somewhat conventional tree until the sky 
clears again. This tableau always found 
favour with the audience. 

"The Shrine of Venus " had the advan- 
tage of being taken from Mr. Ahua Tadema's 
beautiful picture. It would be superfluous 
to comment on the composition of it. The 
dresses, which of course w T ere as near fac- 
similes of t ne painting as possible, were 
well lighted j once with the admixture of 
the red and white, and again by the blue 

Original from 



and white lights. This tableau, it is 
needless to say, was very well received. 

" Scandal, or Private and Confidential," 
was a very pretty conception. It was 
either supposed to represent three bosom 
friends engaged in reading a proposal, all 
unconscious of the proximity of the pro- 
poser himself, accompanied by some eager 
listeners, or a group of ladies engaged in 
discussing the latest bit of scandal, whilst 
some of those concerned are hearing their 
own characters extolled, or otherwise. This 
shared the enthusiastic reception accorded 
to the former. 

"The Tiff'' is reproduced from a well- 
known painting ; a friend is acting as a 

peacemaker between wife and husband. 
This tableau saved the stage-manager the 
trouble of composition by the study from 
the original. The dresses were in subdued 
art shades, on which the red light had a 
charming effect. 

h He loves me ; he loves me not," was 
hardly less successful. 

In arranging tableaux of this kind, 
especial care should be taken not to throw 
contradictory colours on to the groups, 
such as red light on to yellow. The 
red light is generally used to represent 
evening ; the blue, moonlight ; and the 
white, sunshine. As the operators can- 
not communicate with each other whilst 

Original from 


the curtain is up, a complete and exact list 
of the lights required for each tableau must 
be supplied to them beforehand, so that no 
hitch occurs. The gas wants good arrange- 
ment, so that the man who attends to 
it can turn the footlights and floats up 
exactly at the right moment, or moderate 
the light as required. The curtain should, 
as a rule, be np for fifteen to twenty-five 
.seconds, or even more, at the stage- manager's 
discretion, as he will be at the side watching 

much rehearsing as the posing^ of the 
figures. Some people are instinctively 
better able to pose than others, and it 
is the want of power in this direction that 
gives the stage- manager so much trouble. 
As one remarked : " When you ask for the 
hand or arm to be extended, the effect is 
very often more like an old Dutch doll than 
anything else" In this lies the hardest 
part of the work. Of course, when a 
tableau is taken from a picture, line 

the group, and, should any of the members 
show sign of wavering or moving, he will 
at once ring down the curtain. 

It is necessary to have three or four re- 
hearsals, the last of which should be, if 
possible, a dress rehearsal, and the stage- 
manager should use the same properties for 
the members of the various tableaux that are 
to be in use when presented to the audience ; 
and it is a good plan to label these, in order 
that there may be no confusion at the last 
moment. The properties require quite as 

for line, the picture, or a copy of it, 
should be on the stage, in order that the 
members may study each individual part ; 
but when, as is more often the case, the 
manager is responsible for the group, it 
depends a great deal on his artistic ability 
as to whether the posing and grouping are 
good. Very often the moving back of a 
member will mar or make the success of a 
tableau. Again, the turn of a wrist, or the 
inclination of a head, will have the same 
effect j as, altho-jgh a tableau is judged in its 



entirety, each member should endeavour to 
hold herself or himself gracefully, so as to 
contribute to a harmonious whole. 

There is one caution to be noted. The 
soot from the gas in the floats sometimes 
collects on the ironwork overhead, and, 
having got red-hot, falls. It was noticed in 
one oi the tableaux that the audience did 
not consider it a success on account of a 
young lady, who was supposed to be putting 
on her shoe, but who was in reality pinching 

out a large piece of burning soot, which 
had fallen on her dress. A fine piece of 
wire gauze under the float will entirely 
remedy this. Indeed, floats should never 
be fixed without it, as otherwise an accident 
is so liable to happen. 

We think we have rehearsed all the 
details necessary to produce pretty and 
successful tableaux, and the illustrations 
above given will be a help to those who 
wish to represent them. 

Original from 

Woke Up at Last. 

3 HERE'S room for you too, 
Ncltie ! " said Ralphte, in 
his sweet, feeble voice. So 
Nellie curled herself up be- 
side him in the capacious 
old leathered -covered arm- 
chair which always stood beside the parlour 

There was a splendid fire flaming in the 
grate, so the children did not mind being 
alone in the on-coming darkness. They 
were quite happy, nestling together in the 
big chair, with the firelight playing on 
their faces and flickering all over the room. 
The changeful golden glow and the strange 
leaping shadows brought beauty and 

Original from 



mystery into Mrs. Clarke's barely-furnished 
little pariour. 

Airs. Clarke herself had gone out to do 
some marketing. She had been a long 
time gone, and in their secret hearts the 
children hoped it would be a long while yet 
before she re- 
turned. Poor 
Mrs. Clarke, soft- 
hearted as a baby, 
but careful and 
troubled about 
many things, was 
often rather cross 
and disagreeable. 
Since Mr. Clarke's 
death four years 
ago she had been 
a lodging-house 
keeper, and lodg- 
ing- house keep- 
ing had spoiled 
her temper, and 
brought anxious 
puckers and 
wrinkles to her 
once smooth fore- 
head. But the 
fact that she had 
adopted little 
orphaned Ralphie 
was proof enough 
of her being at 
heart a thorough- 
ly kind and 
womanly woman. 

This was the sad history, so far as Mrs. 
Clarke knew it, of Ralphte's parentage. 
Seven years ago, when Mr, Clarke was 
alive and when Mrs. Clarke only let out 
two top rooms of her house, there came one 
day a gentleman seeking lodgings for hinv 
self, his wife, and baby. Mrs. Clarke knew 
he was a gentleman, although he was 
shabbily dressed, and could not afford to 
pay much for the rooms. He was an 
artist, be said, and his face was so sad, 
gentle, and winning that Mrs. Clarke needed 
no other recommendation, and even let him 
have the rooms for much less than she had 
originally asked. No one knew better 
than Mrs. Clarke the heart-rending 
struggles with ill-fortune and poverty her 
lodgers went through, and no one was sadder 
than Mrs. Clarke when the young artist 
laid down his brush for the last time, and 
took to his bed and died, And when, not 
many months later, the young artist's girl- 
wife, broken-hearted, followed her husband 

into the unseen world, it was Mrs, Clarke 
who took compassion on the sickly, wailing 
baby boy, and brought him up side by 
side ivith her own little daughter Nellie. 

As the firelight shone on the two little 
faces it was easy to see that the children 
were not brother 
and sister. Ral- 
ph ie's face was 
delicately pretty, 
with white 
arched brow and 
sensitive blue 
eyes ; Nellie's was 
plain, plump, and 
happy - looking. 
They had been 
sitting silent for a 
longtime. Nellie 
was half asleep, 
her dark head 
with the straight 
hair cut short all 
round it lying 
against Ralphie's 
curls of silky 
gold. Ralphie's 
dreaming, dilat- 
ing eyes were 
fixed upon the 
clear flaming fire. 
" Nellie ! " said 
" I should think 
that lady in the 
picture woke up!" 
"What lady, Ralphie?" said Nellie, 
opening wide her sleepy brown eyes. 

" The lady that's asleep, and that the 
angel boys are flying down to with a cross," 
said Ralphie. 

" That picture in the big gallery that 
you're so fond of ? " said Nellie, suddenly 

" Yes," answered Ralphie, and went on 
dreamily : " P'raps these angels are her 
own little boys that died one day and went 
to heaven. And one day they wanted to 
go back to see their mother. So Jesus let 
them fly down on His cross. But they 
found their mother fast asleep, she was so 
tired out with crying because her little boys 
had died. That's what the picture shows 
you. I 'spect she woke up soon, and 
saw her little boys that had been turned 
into angels. The picture doesn't show you 
that, but I should think Jesus didn't let 
them go back to heaven without letting 
their mother wake up and see them." 

Original from 


This was Ralphie's interpretation of the 
picture of the vision of St. Helena which 
hangs in the National Gallery. Mrs. 
Clarke's house was in a small street scarcely 
a quarter of an hour's walk from Trafalgar- 
square, so Ralph ie and Nellie often 
wandered to the "big gallery," as they 
called it, and spent many happy hours 
there, gazing and marvelling at the 
pictures, To Ralph ie the pictures were of 
absorbing and entrancing interest, and 
many an odd, quaint, fancy about them was 
lodged in his busy brain. The child had 
inherited his father's impressionable, 
imaginative artist nature. " How glad she 
must have been," went on Ralphie, "when 
she woke up and saw " 

Ralphie stopped. Mrs. Clarke had come 

home, heavily laden with parcels, very tired, 
and consequently very cross, so although 
they were very quiet and could not possibly 
have been in the way, snugged up as they 
were in the armchair, Ralphie and Nellie 
were immediately dispatched to bed. 
They were able, however, to finish their 
talk about the picture while they undressed. 
Nellie shared her mother's bed, and Ralphie 
slept in a closet close by. They always left 

their doors open, and talked while they got 
into bed, and some'tinus tor a long time 
after. To-night Ralphie would have con- 
tinued to talk about the lady in the picture 
long after he and Nellie had nestled down 
in bed, but Nellie was tired, and fell asleep 
as soon as her little head touched the 

Ralphie had a bad night. Sometimes he 
was burning hot, sometimes shivering with 
cold. He tossed about and muttered to 
himself, and it was very late before he fell 
asleep. In the morning when he awoke, 
there was a strange excitement in his eyes. 
He lay still a little while, his brain working 
strangely. Then he slipped out of bed, and 
went to Nellie's bedside. Mrs. Clarke had 
been up for some time, but little Nellie 
was still sleeping. A good shake 
sewn aroused her. 

" Nellie ! w cried Ralphie, ex- 
citedly. " The lady in the picture 
woke up ! She woke up and spoke 
to me ! Nellie, let's go and see if it'll 
come true ! She opened her eyes, 
and spoke to me ! Let's go and see if 
it'll come true ! " 

He had much ado to make the 
bewildered Nellie understand what he 
wanted her to do — to get up there 
and then, and go with him to the 
National Gallery to see if the sleep- 
ing lady in the picture was awake ! 
When Nellie did at last comprehend 
what was required of her she made 
no demur. She was accustomed to 
follow and obey Ralphie in every- 
thing, and was easily carried away 
by his excitement and eagerness. 

The two children dressed and went 
quietly downstairs. Mrs. Clarke was 
busy in the kitchen, so they slipped 
out of the front door unobserved. 
Ralphie was weak and dizzy, but his 
excitement gave him strength, and 
he started off at a quick patter down 
the street, almost dragging Nellie 
with him. All the way he babbled 
strangely about the lady in the picture, 
and what she "had said to him in hi> dream. 
When they reached the Gallery, Ralphie 
found, to his keen disappointment, that the 
doors were not yet open. He had quite 
overlooked the fact that they did not open 
till ten o'clock. The clock of St. Martin's 
showed that it was now half-past eight. 

It never occurred to Ralphie to go back, 
and the two children sat down in the porch 
to wait an hour and a half. 
Original from 

, I 


Ralphie's eyes, fixed with an intent look 
upon vacancy, grew ever more and more 
brilliant. Nellie, who had had no beautiful 
strange dream to make her forget every- 
thing else, began to feel cold and hungry. 
She listlessly drooped her little round head 
against a stone pillar, and wondered if 
Ralphie would really wait there till ten 

Big Ben struck the hour 
of nine, and St. Martin's 
chimed in a moment later. 

Nellie was fast asleep. 
Ralphie sat in a waking 
dream with wide, unblink- 
ing eyes. 

The hour passed, and Big 
Ben and St. Martin's pro- 
claimed that it was ten 

The doors opened. Ralphie 
roiled Nellie. They slipped 
in, and stole quickly up one 
of the stone flights of stairs. 

Without a glance of re- 

cognition, Ralphie hurried : •'• 

past all his favourite pictures 

— the Madonnas and bab\ 

Christs ; the man pierced 

with cruel arrows ; the angel 

heads emerging from clouds ; 

the lady with the wheel, her 

face upturned to heaven, and 

her beautiful dress of ruby 

and yellow, grey and green ; 

the boy with the bushy hair and living 

blue cloak running arm in arm with an 

angel, and with a fish dangling from one 

hand ; — all these he almost ran past, never 

pausing until he reached the sleeping lady. 

That sweet, weary, calm face of St. 
Helena, resting on her hand, had taken a 
great hold on Ralphie's heart. As he and 
Nellie stopped before the picture now, he 
clasped his hands together, and fixed his 
glittering blue eyes on St. Helena's face. 

St. Helena was fast asleep. 

"Won't you wake up, lady ? " Ralphie 
began to whisper wistfully,' 1 Won't you— ?" 
The little limbs trembled and failed, a 
strange giddy feeling came into the poor 
little head, everything grew black, and 
Ralphie slid to the ground in a swoon. 

Nellie screamed in terror, and threw her- 
self down beside htm. It filled her with an 
awful dread to see him lying so motionless 
and white. Frantically she pulled him by 
the hand, but he did not stir. She 
implored him to open his eyes, but he kept 

them closed. Nellie sobbed in an agony of 
fear and desolation. 

St. Helena slept on. Neither Ralphie's 
wistful appeal nor Nellie's wild sobs had 
pierced through her dreams. 

But help was coming. 

Olivia Ross had been out an hour ago 
on an errand of mercy. She was now walk- 

ing slowly back to her lonely home, 
pondering over the sad scene she had just 
quitted, marvelling at the strange dealings 
of God with men. 

Something in the pathetic story she had 
just listened to had reminded her of the fate 
of her young brother Ralph. Ten years ago 
Ralph,' a dreamy, unpractical, talented boy, 
had turned his back on his home and on 
his wrathful, disappointed father to live by 
the Art his father despised and to make 
himself a name in the world as a painter. 
Since then there had been no word or 
sign from him. The wide world had 
engulphed him. 

Olivia Ross was a sweet and tender- 
hearted woman. About her compassionate 
lips and on her serene brow there were 
traces of outlived sorrow. She had had 
much grief since Ralph, the brother she 
had loved so well, had gone away. The 
proud old father had died, not forgiving his 
son even at the last, and then Olivia, 
unable to live in the sorrow-liaunted home, 
Original from 



had left it to come to London, there to 
expend her wealth and her compassion 
wherever she found need for it. 

Her way this morning lay through 
Trafalgar-square. As she reached the 
National Gallery, some strong impulse 
made her turn and enter. She used to say 
afterwards that an angel must have taken 
her by the hand and led her in. The 
galleries seemed to be quite empty. She 
walked slowly from one room to another, 
stopping now and then to glance at a 
picture, but always drawn irresistibly on 

Suddenly a child's terrified scream, break- 

Olivia started. It was not Ralph ie's 
words, but his beautiful eyes, that awoke a 
strange agitation within her. 

" How like ! How like ! " she exclaimed 
wonderingly to herself, as she scanned the 
lines of Ralphie's face. 

But this was no time for wonder and 
wild speculation. The exhausted condition 
of the little fellow demanded immediate 
relief. Learning from Nellie, who clung 
sobbing to her skirts, that the children's 
home was farther away than her own, she 
did not pause long to consider what she 
should do. Nellie was sent home to tell 
the story to her mother, and in a brief 

ing the stillness of the place, startled her. 
She hastened in the direction from which 
the sound had come, and was soon on the 
spot where Ralphie lay unconscious on the 
floor, Nellie crouched beside him. 

" My poor iittle ones I " cried Olivia 
Ross, and in a moment she was lifting the 
prostrate child into her pitying arms. 

Ralphie stirred and opened his eyes. 

What a radiant smile it was that stole 
into his face as he looked up at the ladv in 
whose arms he lay ! It was as if some 
celestial vision had been granted him. 

"You have woke up at last!" he 
whispered. ■ Woke up at last ! " There 
was a cadence of perfect content in the 
feeble little voice, and for a moment the 
blue eyes shone out from the pallor of the 
child's face with a wonderful lustre and 

time Ralphie was under Olivia Ross's roof 
with a doctor beside him. 

Ralphie was very ill, said the doctor, 
but with extreme care there was hope of 
his recovery. 

He had always kept but a frail hold ov 
life, and now he had a hard struggle not to 
let go of it altogether. He lay in a state of 
semi -consciousness. Now and then he 
opened his eyes, and always that seraphic 
smile came into them when he saw the 
pitiful face of Olivia Ross bending over 
him. And Olivia smiled back at him, 
because she saw that it satisfied the child, 
but her heart was full of tears, and she 
yearned strangely towards him. 

When Mrs. Clarke came, and when 
Olivia heard the story of Ralphie's parents, 
her heart nearly broke with mingled joy 
and pain. There ivas lio doubt that little 




Ralphie, to whose help she had been so 
wonderfully guided, was her own nephew, 
Ralph's child. 

Ratphie did not die, Olivia could not let 
him die. She watched over him with 
tireless, ceaseless care, keeping hungry 
death at bay. 

" You have woke up at last ! Woke up at 
last ! " Ralph ie would murmur again and 

And Olivia, because it soothed him, 
would answer softly as she stroked his brow 
with a tender hand, "Yes, I have woke up at 
last, little Ralph ; I have woke up at last ! " 

To herself, thinking of her young 
brother's thwarted aspirations and unhappy 
fate, Olivia cried passionately : 

" If he lives — and he must, live — I will 
give him all that was denied to poor 
Ralph. If he loves Art as Ralph loved it, 
he shall have sympathy without stint. 
He shall study, and have the best of 
teachers. He shall travel, and see all that is 
best in Art in the world. He shall have 

every opportunity of developing his talent. 
He shall be a great painter if it is in him to 
be one. 11 

When Ralph ie was at last free from his 
delusion, and was able to be told that the 
lady who had nursed him so pitifully and 
so lovingly through his illness was his own 
aunt, his wonder and rapture knew no 
bounds. It seemed strange at first to hear 
that he was never to go back to live with 
Nellie and Mrs. Clarke, and it was hard to 
part from them. But he was soon recon* 
cited to the change. How could he help it, 
when it was so beautiful and happy a one ? 
How could he help liking to be loved and 
cared for by so sweet and noble a lady as 
his aunt Olivia ? 

It need scarcely be added that Nellie and 
Mrs. Clarke were never forgotten, not even 
when little Ralphie had grown to man's 
estate, and had become a promising young 
painter, of whom it was confidently p r " 
dieted that he would some day write R.A. 
after his name. 

Original from 

AROTID arteries and 
jugular -veins were of 
no more concern to 
Mehemet Ben Ali than the laws of Meum 
and Titum, yet he was true to the core 
when it served his own interests, and in- 
valuable to us in the capacity of Postmaster- 
General when un the war-path in Asia 
Minor. The fact was, Ben had had his 
critical eye on the messengers we sent to the 
rear with despatches for some considerable 
time, as recent experiences proved. 

Not long since, our faithful Johannes, 
the driver of the ramshackle areba, or 
native cart, which contained our supplies, 
had been attacked when on a foraging 
expedition in quest of black bread, and very 
roughly treated. As a representative of 
English pashas, he was supposed to be a 
man of more substance than he turned out 
to be when his pockets were rifled by a 
detachment of four burly brigands who 
had been sent out by the wily Ben to inter- 
cept him. On his joining us, there could 
be little doubt that he really had suffered 
considerably at their hands, having been 
unmercifully cudgelled as a poverty-stricken 
knave who was not (happily for himself) 

worth powder and shot. But is 
such treatment peculiar to semi- 
barbarous latitudes ? Isn't it a 
crime in the most cultured centres 
to be " hard up " ? Johannes com- 
bined the devotion of a Sancho 
Pan^-awith the swash -buck lerism of 
a Fal^taff ; his unseen adventures 
were marvellous. When driving in 
advance, he had several times done 
prodigies of valour ; just before our arrival, 
against great odds, too, to save our stores. 
He was generally sheathing his yatagan on 
our approach, and apparently in a state of 
considerable excitement. He was, however, 
honesty itself in its broadest sense, and the 
fact of his having returned on that parti- 
cular occasion satis almost everything, and 
severely knocked about into the bargain, was 
sufficient evidence of the maltreatment he had 
received. No ; mulching oneself into pome- 
thing like a jelly, is not a likely or pleasant 
way of producing evidence of an experience. 
Johannes had been an unmistakable victim. 
We all liked him; he was a cheery soul, 
and generous to a fault — many faults, in 
fact, as one of our experiences proved. It 
happened in this way. We found him 
one morning in advance of our party, 
commiserating with a poor traveller who, 
weary and footsore, was leaning against 
a box-tree in a glade through which we 
were passing. He had already elicited 
from the poor wretch the rough story of 
his strange career, even to the fact that he 
was then returning by long and exhausting 
stages to his native village near Lake Van, 
which he hoped to reach before his aged 
kotona joined the houri. 





What he feared most was brigands ; he 
was in a state of abject dread of them. He 
had one or two little things which he 
valued about him, and a small amount of 
money as well ; and, when we came up, he 
was imploring Johannes to intercede for 
him that he might be allowed to accompany 
us and enjoy the protectibn of our escort 
for such time as our way lay in his 
direction. Seven times a day would' he 
kiss the hems of our garments if need be, 
to say nothing of prostrating himself each 
night before the setting sun to supplicate 
the blessings of Allah on the kindly pashas 
who had afforded him this much-coveted 

We were quite willing he should accom- 
pany us, and, moreover, gave him the 
additional advantage of riding in our 

He would " grovel in the sand to serve 
us"; he would remember when in Paradise 
(he seemed sure of his ethereal destination) 
the services we had rendered him, and 
perpetually sing our praises. 

From the point of view of futurity, our 
wanderer had been a good investment, and 
we metaphorically patted each other on 
the back as good Samaritans. So it was 
that days and nights succeeded each other 
in which we received ample recompense in 
blessings for the protection we were 
affording. Five days had in all passed, and 
night had closed in, when .pur fellow 
traveller, having shared our frugal meal, 
as usual, and discussed equally, as usual, 
our post-prandial cafe nnir, was smoking 
his last pipe before retiring to rest, when 
(my dragoman translating) he volunteered 
the following story : — 

" Once upon a time, O mighty white 
Pashas," he began, with a delightful 
Oriental vagueness as to period, " once 
upon a time, there dwelt at Teheran a 
mighty monarch and a miserable mendi- 
cant. The monarch's wealth was abundant, 
and the eyes of his lovely daughter Myrrah 
were as lode-stars in the rays of which he 
basked. As far as this world's possessions 
were concerned he had nothing left to 
desire, yet was he the most miserable man 
in all Persia ; for in his youth he had 
violated (no matter how) the confidence of 
his best friend, and now old age was creep- 
ing upon him so rapidly that he feared 
insufficient time for repentance would be 
left him. 

" Now, one day while riding in the vicinity 
of his pa'ice, he noticed a starving mendi- 

cant lying by the wayside, and he felt that 
in him Allah had afforded him an oppor- 
tunity for doing good as a means by which 

to compensate for his youthful short- 

" So he bade the beggar rise and follow 
him. Then for his rags were substituted fine 
raiment, and he not only showered upon 
him untold wealth, but made him even the 
highest officer in his royal household, his 
Grand Vizier. 

" Now, what did that Grand Vizier do ? 
Did he .'ngthe praises of his deliverer from 
cockcrow to sundown ? 

" No, he did not ; he did nothing of the 
kind. He added to his obligations by fall- 
ing desperately in love with the king's only 
daughter, the princess Myrrah, whose eyes, 
you will remember, were as lode-stars and 
Avhose complexion blended in one the 
beauties of the lily and the rose, and whose 
lips were ' ruddier than the cherry'; and he 
said unto her : ' Take of thy father's jewels 
and gold all thou canst secure, and I 
also will do the same, he has enough and to 
spare. And, when we have gathered to- 
gether all that cometh within our reach, we 
will journey hence together while your royal 
father the king sleepeth, and none shall 
know whither.' 

"And this, O pashas, in the dead of night 
they did, so that when the monarch awoke 
in the morning he found himself, not only 
robbed of his most valuable worldly 
possessions, but, above all, discovered him- 
self to be childless. 

" ' There is no gratitude in this world," 
said the king. ' In striving by good deeds to 
erase bad ones, I have but proved that the 
ready-witted rogue is the winner in the 
long run.' " 

This was the strange philosophy of the 
wanderer's story on which I pondered 
when, half an hour later, all others in the 
khan were wrapped in slumber. 

At the first grey streak of dawn I awoke, 
and felt, as was my custom, in my waistcoat 
pocket for my watch, that I might time our 

It was gone ! Not the waistcoat, but the 
watch. The chain had been nipped by a 
sharp instrument, many sovereigns too had 
been dexterously abstracted from my gold 

Several other correspondents had suffered 
somewhat similarly. An entry must have 
been made in the night. We all hoped 
the poor stranger with his small stock of 
hard-earned valuables, which he cherished 




so dearly, had not suffered as well. No, he 
had not. The spot where he had disposed 
himself to rest the night before, in the 
language of the East, u knew him not." 

It had been an exit, not an entry, after all. 
He had, in other words, made tracks, taking 
with him everything he could lay hands 
on. We had, in short, been done to a turn 
by an Asiatic sharper of the first water, and 
it was with sickly smiles that we concurred 
with the moral of his story of the night 
before — 

" There is no gratitude in this world. 
Ready-witted rogues generally win in the 
long run. ' 

Those abundant blessings had been a 
bad investment 
after all. The 
poor stranger 
would have made 
an abie officer in 
the service of 
Mehemet Ben 

The incident, 
however, which 
decided our future 
action with a view 
to keeping in 
touch with the 
base of operations 
in Fleet-street 
was the prema- 
ture return of one 
of uur messengers 
who had been 
sent by us with 
sketches and de- 
spatches to Erze- 
roum. The story 
he told was a 
simple one. 

The leathern a ummms 

case in which he 

carried our pen and pencil contributions to 
the London press had attracted the notice 
of several brigands, wiio had fallowed him 
into a gloomy copse ; and, having first 
beaten him, the invariable custom of those 
who are too humane to kill outright, they 
had bound him to a tree, a helpless witness 
to the examination of his effects. 

The manuscripts had of course no 
interest for them, but the sketches delighted 
them immensely. They literally roared 
when they saw themselves as others saw 

Having formed a hanging committee, 
they disposed of a batch of these drawings 

on the surrounding forest trees. A sylvan 
exhibition of black and white sketches, to 
" a private view H of which they now left 
our scared servant. 

Later on they returned, bringing with 
them many others, amongst whom they 
were ultimately divided with a general 
good humour which was so catching that 
they unanimously agreed to let the messen- 
ger who had been the innocent means of so 
much amusement go free, and thus it was 
that he had been able to again join us. 

Happily for us, this discovery was made 
so early that it did not materially affect us, 
and served as a wholesome hint that, under 
certain circumstances, when not in touch 
with the regular 
army, and some- 
times even then, 
we must avail 
ourselves of the 
services of " our 
friend, the 
enemy/' in other 
words of these 
very brigands 
Williams, my 
Levantine inter- 
preter, was on all 
such critical occa- 
sions invaluable, 
and we now at 
once consulted 

There were, he 
told us, many 
villages en route 
known by the 
natives to be 
chiefly occupied 
by desperadoes of 
iMMurm& the highway, 

whose propensi- 
ties, bloodthirsty enough when in the open, 
were mild and lamblike at heme to alt 
passing strangers who claimed their hospi- 
talities. Once within the limits and your 
protection was assured till your departure, 
when, becoming again public property, you 
were attacked with all possible precipitancy, 
lest some other gang secured you who had 
not extended to you any hospitalities at all. 
To one of several such remote villages 1 
wuuld refer. Our approach had evidently 
not been expected, or we should probably 
have been intercepted. We were in fact 
palavering with several of the villagers 
before the chief, or headman, of the place 





was well aware of our arrival. He was a 
venerable rogue, with a merry twinkle in 
his eye; nature had designed him for a very 
low comedian, but, fate having ordained 
otherwise, he was the leading spirit of that 
little community of cut -throats. 

The village, however, was "ours," and 
they, the inhabitants, were " our veriest 

Immediately the women had been 
accommodated elsewhere, we should have 
M the best khan in the place," In vain did 
we protest that we wouldn't for the world 
disturb the ladies. They were bundled off 
tus tauter, and we were ushered, still on 
horseback, into a huge stable, one portion 
of which was divided off into stalls where 

Having been supplied plentifully with 
youart (a sort of rank curds and whey) and 
pelaff (a concoction of rice and the fat 
obtained from the pendulous tails ot Asiatic 
sheep), we wrapped ourselves snugly up 
in our many wraps, lit our pipes, and calmly 
awaited what " Kismet " had in store for 

Presently the rude door of the place was 
thrown wide open and achiliv gust of wind 
careered through the khan, bearing with it 
a volume of smoke front our primitive fire- 
place to be circulated in a sort of sooty 
cloudlaud above the rafters, chimneys 
being unknown in this happy valley. 

Was it a funeral procession, or what ? 

The measured tread of many feet was 

sheep, goats, oxen, and several very faded- 
looking horses were indiscriminately 
huddled together, while the smaller 
division of the place was devoted to the 
accommodation of poor humanity. 

Several bewrinkled old hags, who were 
understood to be proof against our bland- 
ish ments, had been allowed to remain to 
satisfy, later on, the curiosity of their fairer 

The night was cold, and the wood fire 
which burned brightly in a convenient 
corner came as a welcome invitation to 
make ourselves as comfortable as we coukl 
under the circumstances, which, it is need- 
less to say, we at once proceeded to do. 

to be heard without : first a beturbaned 
native entered, who, walking majestically to 
where I was seated, presented me with much 
solemnity with a flint stone, upoti which, 
salaaming, he left the khan, to be succeeded 
by another and yet another, till some twelve 
or fourteen villagers had thus paraded before 
US, each bringing unconsidered trifles as 
presents for the white pashas. Broken bits 
of rusty flint-locks, bunches of leaves, old 
horseshoes, anything, in short, to convey an 
impression of kindly welcome and suggest 
future bucksheesh. 

These presentations were hardly con- 
cluded when the clatter of horses' hoofs 
outside suggested the return from one of 



their raids of a small party of marauders 
who, the next moment, had ridden into the 
khan and dismounted. First and foremost 
amongst these was Mehemet Ben Ali, whose 
glorious indifference with regard to carotid 
arteries and jugular veins was spoken of at 
the commencement of this article. 

We joined the amused throng in the 
village later on, who gathered round those 
swarthy exhibitors of our effects, as they 
held up, one after another, our effects 
for inspection — a comb causing much 
amusement, its use, with that of a hair 
brush, requiring considerable explanation. 
I distinctly remember, too, a necktie, the 
band of which fastened with a patent clasp 
and an ominous click, 
which at mice asso- 
ciated itself in their 
minds with the click 
of a pistol, and it 
was quite ludicrous to 
see how suddenly it 
was dropped by the 
first, and hew care- 
fully it was avoided by 
the rest of those who 
were examining the 
contents of our saddle 
bags. Soap, again, 
was more than once 
supposed to be eatable, 
and its use for wash- 
ing purposes, when 
explained, was only 
half believed, its colour 
happening to be pink 
and white, suggesting 
to them some form of 
Rah at Lakoum, they 
evidently thought we 
were trying to save 
oursweetstuff. Every- 
thing, however, was returned to us, pilfering 
being only practised without the village 
lines, once having left which we were open 
to attack at any moment from our late 
entertainers, who now followed to waylay us. 

1 was so pleased with Mehemet Ben Airs 
superior intelligence that I consulted 
Williams with a view to explaining to htm 
our desire to keep up a direct communication 
with Erzeroum and thus with Trebizond on 
the coast, the latter part of the postal 
communication being covered by Tatas, or 
native footmen, generally some six or eight 
in number, who carry their letters and 
parcels in the saddlebags of the mules or 
horses they ride, and who arc always accom- 

panied by an armed escort of zapteahs. 
Thus, it once we could deposit our supplies 
of sketches and MS. with the British 
Consul at Erzeroum, ail would go well. 

It has been seen that ordinary messen- 
gers between the villages at which — when 
not sleeping in the open— we put up, and 
that place were invariably waylaid, so we 
further explained how utterly valueless to 
anyone, save our own reople in England, 
were the despatches we sent ; while, on the 
other hand, if we could once obtain an 
assurance of their safe delivery, we would 
reward Mehemet personally to a consider- 
able extent, and he could pay his hirelings 
as he thought fit. Thus would he make 
more by the traiisac- 
£T~n, tion in a week than he 

would perhaps make 
by the uncertain pro- 
fession of brigandage 
in six months. 

Ready-witted Ben 
saw at a glance that in 
this case honesty was 
the best policy, and 
thus it was that, not 
only there, but else- 
where, we were able 
to keep up direct com- 
munication with the 
rear, which would 
[| have been otherwise 
impossible. Every 
short cut through the 
mountains was known 
to these fellows, who 
thus circumvented 
^BlkiW/A; the regular troops 

who sometimes were 
despatched in small 
bodies in search of 
them. This they did 
in the most marvellous way, always 
managing, through some intermediary, 
to get our literary and artistic contribu- 
tions to the press by hook or by crook 
into the town, turning up a few days later 
with some unmistakable evidence of their 
delivery ; then the Postmaster-General, 
as we dubbed Ben Ali, received the 
promised largess, the same system being 
made afterwards to apply, as I have said, 
with equal success elsewhere during such 
time as we were traversing that wild track 
of country intervening between Erzeroum 
and Kars, where we eventually joined the 
army of Ahmed Muckhtar Pasha. 

The revolver they hold in special abhor- 




renee, as containing the shafts of Sheiun — 
the devil's bolts — since, from their point of 
view, it goes off without loading. We 
never failed to show 
these easily -deluded 
creatures the repeat- 
ing qualities of our 
weapon: , never, of 
course, letting them 
see us load them. 

I remember one 
occasion on which for 
their edification I pro- 
posed that a bottle 
should be put up and 
smashed by us at a 
fairly long pistol 
range, each corre- 
spondent firing six 
shots. I fired first. 
I emptied my revolver 
without— I blush to 
confess it — going 
within measurable dis- 
tance of that bottle ; it 
had, indeed, been a 
most unfortunate sug- 
gestion on my part. 
Utterly disgusted at 
my failure, The Man- 
chester Guardian^ an 
excellent revolver 
shot as a rule, took up 
his position. He failed 
now, as utterly and ignominiuusly as I had 
done. The Scotsman came next, with no 
better result. At this moment a lanky 
Circassian, who had been looking on, 
inquired mildly what the great white 
pashas were trying to do; and, when 
it was explained that they had intended 
hitting that bottle, he expressed himself as 
wonderstruek, picked up a stone, and, cer- 
tainly with a force and precision I never 
witnessed before, or since, he smashed that 
bottie to smithereens. 

Wc did no more revolver practice in that 
village. Small matters have sometimes 
weighty significance^* instanced on another 
occasion, a delightfully calm evening, when 
we were steaming from Constantinople 
across the placid waters of the Sea of 
Marmora towards Brindisi. It was some 
months after our Anatolian experiences 
recorded above. 

Did I ever suffer from palpitation of the 
heart ? Why, who could help it who ha? 
spent more than a week in Spain. She 


certainly " takes a side fiance and looks 
down, beware ! " but then, at the same 
time, to have basked in the sunny smiles of 
Spanish beauty is to 
have enjoyed a 
glimpse of Paradise 
and the Peri. 

In a n j' other 
country, war would 
have crushed, at least 
for the moment, the 
spirit of love ; not so, 
however, during the 
Spanish campaign. 1 
assure you that in San 
Sebastian, where I was 
during the siege of 
that place by the 
Carlists, the Alemada, 
or chief boulevard, 
was the scene every 
evening of th i wildest 
gaiety. Staid duennas 
with patroi] ising air 
enjoying the gambols 
of thei r you n ge r si sters 
to the full, as much 
as those accomplished 
fan-flirters did them- 
selves, while the wild 
Fandango, the grace- 
ful Bolero, and seduc- 
fak or hess." tive waltz won over 

by turns the hearts of 
all the male on -lookers. 

Night after night have I watched my 
own particular Dulcinea del Toboso — or 
rather of San Sebastian in this case — flirt 
her fan and frolic on the light fantastic toe 
till I swore solemnly never again to visit 
the Peninsula, without having learnt to 
conjugate the verb to love in Spanish. 

I recall, too, how I once nearly lost my 
heart and my balance at one and the same 
moment when hi the Basque frontier town of 
Irun— it was during the siege of that place 
also that I happened to be there. It was 
evening. A typical Spanish damsel was 
crossing the Plaza, her mantilla gracefully 
wrapped about her shoulders ; she was flirt- 
ing that fan of hers as Spanish women 
alone know how, and cast so bewitching a 
glance in my direction as she passed that I 

confess I was — well To continue, she 

was presently joined by several female 
friends, who, notwithstanding the fusillade 
which was going on from the roof of the 
great square tower of the cathedral, and the 
occasional bursting of a shell on the out- 



skirts {a deadly messenger from the Cadi at 
fort of St. Martial, on the heights), were as 
light-hearted and frolicsome as if they were 
going to a fete de nuit — on, on they came 
again in my direction. 

I had eyes only for one— and she evi- 
dently knew it. Oh, the exquisite delight 
of that moment ! Twilight was closing in, 
yet I presently noted that " the queen of 
my heart " was followed by an uncanny 
reptile, she was evidently quite unconscious 
of its pursuit of her ; with unwieldy leaps 
and bounds 
whichever way 
she turned it 
dogged her foot- 

Now I have 
the greatest re- 
pugnance to 
anything of the 
insect or reptile 
kind t yet I had 
manifestly only 
one course to 
pursue now ; 
besides, what a 
happy — may I 
say 'heroic? — 
medium for in- 
troduction thus 
presented itself. 

I rushed at 
the grim, black, 
beast. Twice 
did it dexter- 
ously evade the 
foot which 
would have 
crushed it. The 
third time, how- 
ever, I was 
more fortunate, 
the full force of 
my heel had 
come down on 
the agile crea- 
ture, and there 
was at the same 
time a curiou- 
feeling that it 
had been 
severed from 

the skirt to which it had been clinging tooth 
and nail. The little party stopped, and the 
lady of my particular choice with a look of 
amazement exclaimed, " Seiior ! 1 ' 

I hastily explained in French, which 

happily that lady understood. I pointed 
to the dead animal at my feet, raised my 
hat, and smiled triumphantly, 

Then, turning to her friends, she pointed 
at it too, and all united in roars of laughter 
at my expense, intermingled with louc 
shouts of " El drap ! El drap ! " 

The fact was it was a well-known Spanish 
practical joke by which the uninitiated are 
led to suppose that a cleverly cut piece of 
cloth attached to a girl's skirts and twitched 
into action by her as she walks is a reptile of 
dangerous pro- 
portions. Who 
shall say that 
men were ''gay 
deceivers ever'' 
after that ? 
* * t- 

It has not 
been given to 
many to make 
pen and pencil 
notes of the 
ladies of a 
Pasha's harem, 
yet twice when 
in Asia Minor 
did I come 
across them 
as fugitives 
hastening on 
before the Rus- 
sian advance. 
On the fust 
occasion the 
impression con- 
veyed was that 
of a travelling 
menagerie, so 
closely were 
those fair ones 
packed in a 
long gilded 
diligence -like 
conveyance, the 
sides of which 
were closely 
latticed, while 
the Pasha — at 
other times no 
doubt u a lion 
amongst the 
ladies — was 

now at large, riding sedately at the rear. 
My second was the experience of which 

I make a pencil note in this article, and 

which struck me as far the most character 

istic of the two. 



A handsome bronzed Astatic Turk, not 
having evidently had time to make all 
necessary arrangements for flight, had 
accommodated his seven wives as best he 
could ; two had secured the shelter of a 
latticed sedan chair, while the others, alter- 
nating between horse and camel-back, 
adapted themselves to the situation as best 
they could ; indeed, those in the sedan 
alighted from time to time when a halt was 
made, and it was then the distinctive posi- 
tions of those wives in relation to that 
Pasha were most noticeable. Of the seven, 
four were really more or less attendants on 
the remaining three, while the actual 
favourite, the wife of wives, the queen of 
the harem, held amongst these three a 
distinctive position. She was generally the 
happy possessor of a French parasol. I 
don t mean to infer that this is the dis- 
tinguishing badge of an Oriental favourite, 
but when, in far-off up-country villages and 
small townships, the local Kiamakans and 
others can secure one of those much- 
coveted Parisian or Viennese 
sunshades, it becomes as a 
matter of right the property of 
her who takes first rale in the 
Pasha's household. 

When I came across the little 
group which forms the subject 
of ■ my illustration, they were 
halting for refreshment ; the 
Pasha calmly smoking his mid- 
day nargile and sipping black 
coffee, while his wives were 
refresh i ng the mseJ ves w ith 

I couldn't help noticing, as 
far as good taste in personal 
appearance was concerned, that 
Pasha's choice of a favourite ; 
her yashmack, much more 
gauzy than the rest, revealing 
most charming features, while 
her figure, judging from the folds 
of her voluminous draperies 
was of perfect contour. 

Fate, apparently, had no 
horrors for this much-married 
magnate : perhaps, when he 
looked around, and his wives, 
with one accord, said, or seemed 
to suggest : " We are seven, to 
say nothing of our retainers, 
together with our dogs, cats, 
and parrots," he felt that he 
was beyond its reach. He was 
the very embodiment of philo- 

sophy, as he stood therj calmly surveying 
his surroundings, lazily smoking his sweet- 
scented nargile ; it takes a good deal to 
rouse the average Turk to action, but 
when Ills blood is up, he's a demon. This 
Pasha will however retreat leisurely, til! he 
touches the coast, when, with all his im- 
pedimenta round abouthim,hewill make his 
way in the first available ship to Constanti- 
nople— -at least, so he hopes — Kismet ! 
e * * 

Whistler's butterfly, whose flutterings are 
represented by the splutter ings from that 
eccentric artist-author's pen, would find 
happy hunting-grounds on these pages, 
where incident follows incident regardless 
of place or period. Thus would I now ask 
you to return with me for the nonce to 
Spain, that we may indulge together in 
more impressions by the way. 

Under certain circumstances there is 
something singularly eloquent about abso- 
lute silence. I have, on several occasions 
in my wandering career, been infinitely 




more impressed by it than by noisy demon- 
stration. Look up at that massive Gothic 
tower, standing out. as black as approaching 
night against a saffron sky ; it'sthe cathedral 
oflrun, in the erst market-place of which we 
are standing — shambles had been a better 
name for it since the commencement of this 
civil war. Hush ! there is an appalling 
silence over all to-night, which may not be 
rudely broken. 
There is no 
evidence of 
movement any- 
where. Accus- 
toming one's 
eyes to the 
deepening twi- 
light, one cer- 
tainly sees here 
and there 
groups of men, 
women, and, in 
some cases, chil- 
dren huddled 
together in 
strange atti- 
tudes and 
gloomy corners 
round about the 
dark entry to 
the cathedral — 
horror depicted 
on the faces of 
some, petfeet 
serenity on 
those of others, 
yet never a word 
do they utter. 
They are " in 
the garden of 

sleep. The 

are dead, all 

dead, the 

market - place, 

after a hard 

day's fighting, 

being deserted 

by the living — 

all save you and 

I, and that spectre-like sentry yonder on 

the cathedral tower " on guard," 

But the gloom is suddenly relieved by 
a ray of many-coloured light which 
comes through one of the cathedral win- 
dows. This is succeeded by another, and 
yet another. 

The priests within are lighting up the 
altar, and a flood of prismatic brilliance 
mingles with the smoke from burning 

embers and the still night air without, save 
where the old pile faces the Carlist lines, in 
which direction the windows have been 
carefully barricaded, so as not to attract the 
enemy's shell fire. Hark I sweet and low the 
organ peals forth exquisite strains of music ; 
while, now and again, Dong ! and asonorous 
metallic voice from the belfry invites the 
stricken ones to sanctuary. A company of 
slow, measured 
tread, emerge 
from a neigh- 
bouring street, 
and, directing 
their steps 
towards the 
cathedral, are 
followed by a 
crowd, all 
hastening for 
the protection 
of Mother 
Church. Dong ! 
Again that bell, 
so full of solemn 

Look! What 
are they carry- 
ing on that 
splintered door, 
which serves as 
a stretcher? 
Let us rever- 
ently lift the 
cloak which 
half conceals a 
human form. 
It is a young 
dying, to whom 
the last rites are 
about to be 
Not a word is 
spoken as the 
t siiitLL.. regimental 

favourite is 
tenderly carried by his comrades to the 
altar. "Crucifix in hand, the officiating 
priest affords this suppliant for pardon the 
spiritual assurances he most needs. Raising 
himself on one arm, he looks first this way, 
then that, as if uncertain as to what is 
going on around him ; and then, realising 
it all, he sinks back, with a restful, satisfied 
smile on his young face. He is dead 1 The 
regimental iuigcudj, who happens to be 




present, certifies it. "Those whom the 
gods love die young." 

The procession moves on just as another 
similar one takes its place at the altar steps. 
And all this to the running accompaniment, 
now of the clank of arms ; the continuous 
strains, still soft and low, of organ music ; 
the occasional irregular rattle of musketry 
when the pickets are exchanging shots ; 
and again the measured, muffled, periodical 
Dong ! of that passing bell. 

This is no fancy picture : I saw and heard 
it more than once when on the war-path ; 
but yet, as I have said, the silence which 
preceded or succeeded events was often 
more eloquentjthan events themselves. At 
Hernani, near Oreamendez, the tolling of 
sanctuary came across hill and dale with 
ominous significance, which made the inter- 
vening silence" doubly terrible ; while in 
remote, unexpected places, up in the hills 
perhaps, it was not unusual to come across 
just such a scene as the one I have de- 
picted — a beautiful Gothic setting to a 
monument of inhuman passion. The elo- 
qusmx of silence at such times is indeed 
impressive, and may fitly contrast with the 
incident on the title-page of this article. 
A long lins of Bedouins, shouting, yelling 
to their camels, " Ider ! Ider ! Ider ! " 
have come at a swinging pace bet ween myself 
and the setting sun. From a certain point 
of view, the wild devilry of the whole 
thing cannot be excelled : as a picture of 
weird activity it stands alone. Yet a few 
hours later, when under the still, starlit 
canopy of heaven they are reposing by 
their exhausted camels, wrapped in the 
silence of sleep, a crescent moon glimmering 
over the crest of the distant uplands, one 
feels infinitely nftore impressed than before 

All things are comparative in this world 
—finding ourselves transported on the 
wings of fancy — you and I are again in 
Spain. That Arab encampment was but 
a dissolving view. We are at the battle 
of Behobie, on the Franco-Spanish frontier. 
As will be seen by the illustration, that 
which at a first glance looks not unlike a 
huge Gladstone collar is, as a matter of 
fact, an immense iron shield which the 
Carlistsused on several occasions with signal 
effect. Oh ! the rattle of the musketry 
against that barrier, which, as the fighting 
progressed, was moved forward on cross- 
beams and rollers, while behind it all the 
securable furniture and debris were piled 
up, so as to give vantage points to those of 

the defending party who had been unable 
to secure holes for the muzzles of their rifles, 
apertures with which this novel defence was 
plentifully studded. 

Just as love laughs at locksmiths because 
he penetrates everywhere, so could the 
Carlists laugh at the enemy whose bullets 
in harmless confusion rattled against that 
iron shield, save when the more adventurous 
exposed themselves above it. 

It is astonishing what the association of 
ideas will do. In jotting down my pen and 
pencil notes for this article I must not omit 
to refer to a strange Jewish encampment at 
Zimnitza, the particular attraction of which 
was a circus of considerable proportions 
under a huge umbrella tent. Zimnitza, it 
will be remembered, is situated on the banks 
of the Danube, justr where, in 1877, the 
Russians threw their magnificent bridge of 
boats across that river. 

Here, just at the rear of the fighting, as 
it were, were speculative Jews— and Gen- 
tiles, too — making hay while the sun shone. 
Almost everything which money could buy 
was obtainable in this canvas village. Holes 
dug deep into the ground were canvassed 
over and dubbed by such high-sounding 
titles as the Hotel de la Reine Hortense, 
Grand Hotel de la Guerre, and so on, 
while that great circular curriculum was an 
unfailing attraction when night closed in. 

Here Mr. Merryman, dressed a la grand 
Turk, was master of the ceremonies ; here, 
Joo, marvellous feats of horsemanship on 
piebald and spotted screws were performed ; 
Mademoiselle Elise dancing with exquisite 
skill on the tight-rope, while tumblers 
tumbled to the delight of a well-packed 
audience of those who could afford the 
exorbitant charges of the speculative pro- 
prietors. Indeed, "let us eat, drink, and 
be merry, for to-morrow we die,'' seemed 
the spirit which infused those Russian 
officers as they applauded the antics of the 
acrobats or the grimaces of Mr. Merryman ; 
in fact, it was difficult to realise that, once 
across that bridge of boats yonder, glitter- 
ing when lit up after dark like a chain of 
diamonds, you would be in touch, as it 
were, with what was hourly becoming one 
of the htrdest contested military positions 
of modern warfare. 

There is a gaiety about Tommy Atkins 
at the front, no matter what his nationality 
be, which is truly marvellous. 

" Furnished " and " unfurnished " apart- 
ments, too, were obtainable here — at a 




price. Their consl ruction was delightfully 
simple. Unfurnished accommodation was 
represented by a hole bearing a striking 
resemblance to a grave covered in at the 
top with lightly interwoven branches — the 
snow did the rest. On the other hand, a 
furnished apartment had boards thrown 
down at the bottom, on which a quantity 
of straw uas placed, to which, ior the con- 
venience of the sleeper, a short ladder was 
sometimes added, that he might not, like 
his " unfurnished " neighbour, have to jump 
too precipitously into bed. There were many 
such on the Bulgarian side of the river, too. 
I well remember taking one of these (fur- 
nished) myself one night, and when I 
questioned the price, which was thirty 
francs, I was assured that on the previous 
night — true, it was snowing at the time — a 
brigadier had cheerfully handed over thirty- 
six francs for the same accommodation. 

The quick and the dead in turn, in 
many cases, occupied these queer quarters ; 
since, when there was no further use for 

them as far as the Hying were concerned,! hey 
were often used for purposes of interment. 

Thus will it be seen from these anecdotes 
of the war-path that the " special n must be 
no feather-bsd sol&et or carpet knight who 
would represent the Press at the front. 

Compared with many, I have been myself 
most fortunate, yet even I have had fevers, 
small-pox, and two sunstrokes, to say 
nothing of imprisonment as a spy, hair- 
breadth 'scapes, and other such" minor 
matters to contend with. 

Of my brethren of the pen and pencil 
I might say much,' not only as far as their 
services to the Press have been concerned, 
but their services to humanity as well, when 
— in quest of incident — they have been at 
the front with the Red Cross. As I write, 
such distinguished men as Archibald Forbes, 
FredViIliers,0'Donovan f McGahan,Christie 
Murray, and many others, naturally present 
themselves as amongst those who have 
already "left their footprints on the sands 
of time," 

(Curiam effttt tun an fht &a 0/ Marmara; 

Original from. - 

Why He Failed. 

/IE threw away a great chance 
of success, and has been a 
happier man eveT since. 

There is no one but my- 
self in England now, who 
knows exactly how it hap- 
pened, and as I was thinking over it to- 
night (something in the papers about a 
clever detective in New York brought it 
all fresh back to my mind) it seemed to me 
such a queer story altogether that I think 
it will interest others to know it. 

I must just alter one or two of the names, 
that's all, because it is not so very long ago 
since it happened, and it came out in one 
or two papers at the time, but all more or 
less wide of the mark. None of them had 
just the rights of it. 

You see, no one could make out how 
Allan got away so easily — no one knows 
except my friend and I, and one man over 
the seas, and not even the cutest Yankee 
could ever guess the truth. 

It is stranger than fiction, as you will 
find. But this is the story. 

I put it short enough, for writing is not 
in my line. I can think things out in my 
head, and turn them over and over, till 
ther : is not much left of them 
that has not been put through 
the sieve, so to speak, but 
when it comes to pen and 
ink I'm a poor hand. It 
means sitting down indoors 
for hours, and that I am not 
used to. No, thank Heaven, 
I can earn my bread by some- 
thing else, or very little bread 
would come to me, and no 
chance of butter or cheese. 

This is not my story at all ; 
I mean, not about my own 
life. It is about a friend of 
mine, George Markson. 

If I told you his real name, 
you would probably remember 
at once ; he was one of the best 
known detectives of that time. 
Talk about five senses, George 
had ten at least, He could 
see round a case, and through 
a man, and into your mind 
almost, and tell you what you 
were thinking of, better than 
you knew yourself. 

And all so quiet — you would not think 
he saw much, but he had seen everything 
at a glance, and forgotten nothing. I have 
known him look into a room that he had 
never seen before, and in the evening, when 
we were sitting together, he would describe 
that room, down to the maker's name on 
the clock, as minutely as if he were holding 
a picture of it in his hand at the time. 

He worked on his own account, and he 
had constant and well paid employment, 
since the day he tracked the man who 
robbed the bank of Westminster ; you may 
remember the case — a daring daylight 

He traced him after a long search to 
Paris, and spotted him there as a garcon in 
a cafe — a. good disguise too. George was in 
Spain after that for a long time, and then 
went to Cairo, so I did not see him for more 
than a year. He came back with a repu- 
tation more brilliant than ever, and settled 
down into the same rooms he had shared 
with me before he left. 

He was a middle-aged man when I knew 
him, and the severe mental strain of his 
employment, together with home troubles, 
made him seem older than he was. 





His wife, to whom he had been much 
attached, had died many years before. His 
only son, too, had turned out badly, got 
•nto debt (the old story of a weak will in- 
fluenced by bad companions), and then had 
emigrated to the gold diggings, and was 
believed to have died there, after a few 
more wasted years of riot and dissipation. 

His father had built many hopes on his 
only son, and carried about an unhealed 
wound caused by the bitter disappointment 
of all his expectations. 

At the time I am writing about, I saw 
there was something more than usual on 
George's mind. 

He nerer talked much about what he was 
engaged in, and I took care never to plague 
him with questions, but it happened that a 
chum of mine, named Miles, told me that 
George had missed a 
good clue, and that 
another man, named 
Smollett, was begin- 
ning to make a name, 
and was now bent on 
outdoing George. 

Once run to earth 
someone whom 

George had failed to 
trace, and his repu- 
tation was secure. 
To outshine one of 

the best men then 

at work was a high 

game to try for, but 

Smollett was trying 

no less. 

Not long after, I 

met Aides again in 

Oxford - street. He 

told me that Smollett 

had scored again, 

and that George had 

missed a find he had 

made pretty sure of. 
I pooh-poohed the 

whole thing. 
" Chance, all chance. 

Fine thing for Smol- " «■ stood fob some 

Iett, more luck than 

good management, no doubt," I said, feel- 
ing rather nettled, I own. * Wait a bit ; 

you will see which is the best man of the 


" I'll back Sm — " said Miles, but he 

remembered that George was my friend 

and said no more. 

I came across Miles in very nearly the 

same place next day. u Heard the latest ? " 

he shouted, and then proceeded to explain 
that a forger, who had been wanted for 
some time, was supposed to be in London, 
and that a large reward was offered for 

u Both on the war trail this time," said 
Miles. " Which will be the best man now, 
eh ? Getting exciting, isn't it ? " 

That evening George, who had been out 
all day, came quickly into the room soon 
after six, 

I knew by his look that he was employed 
on some important mission. His brows 
were drawn down into a single straight line t 
and his lips were firmly pressed together. 

He stood for some time on the hearth-rug, 
evidently deep in thought. He had not 
removed his top coat, 

u Are you off again ? " I remarked. 

He looked up sud- 
denly. " Going to 
drive to Holloway/' 
he said. "Will you 
come ? " 

I knew by this that 
he would tell me 
more of his errand. 
I rose at once. He 
looked at his watch. 

B The cab will be 
round here in a few 
minutes," he said 
quickly. " I'll tell 
you what it is, Tom, 
if I miss this, I shall 
give up this work 
altogether. I have 
not been very lucky 
lately, old man, 
though I have not 
worried you about 
my affairs." 

u They never worry 
me," I began, u I only 

wish you " 

" I know, I know," 
he interrupted kind- 
ly ; " you think your 
ie deep [n thought.' back is broad enough 

to carry my cares as 
well as yours, but you shall never have 
mine to bother you, Torn, while you have 
got any of your own. This is the thing 
you have heard of "—and then he went on 
to tell me the details nf the case that Miles 
had referred to. 

" I came across the track this afternoon, 1 ' 
he said, "and now it's only a question of 

Original from 




He drew a deep breath of relic f, and 
threw hi* shoulders back. " I did make a 
mess of that last thing, and that makes me 
more keen about this. You see, there's 
another man " {I knew he meant Smollett) 
'• who would give a good bit to get hold of 
this job before me, but there's not much 
fear of my losing it now." 

He smiled as he spoke, and looked more 
hopeful than he had done for a long time. 

We said nothing more, and drove off. 

It was- a wet, cold night, and I was glad 
when the cab stopped, and we left it at the 
corner of a shabby-looking side street. 

" Third door on the right," said George, 
partly to himself, " past the coal yard, over 
the butcher's. You wait here for two 
minutes, Tom ; if I am not down then, you 
follow me. Back room on the top of 
staircase. I may want you. Don't stand 
in the wet. Here's a doorway 
to shelter in." 

At the end of two minutes, 
I was climbing quietly up th< 
narrow dark staircase. 
No sound of voices 

" Bird's flown. Bad 
tucktohim, ,f Ithought. 
" Awfully hard on 
George, poor fellow.'' 

I was at the top 
when suddenly there 
came the sound (so 
seldom heard) of a 
man's voice broken 
by sobs, striving to 
-peak quickly and 

'' Ah ! found it's 
no go, confessing 
his sins," I smiled 
to myself, and 
pushed the door 

I have known George's voice, always sn 
quiet, so self-controlled ? How could I 
recognise George himself, kneeling on the 
Moor, by the side of a poor, miserable bed, 
holding in his arms the figure of a man. 
A head was resting on his shoulder ; his 
hands were smoothing back the dark hair 
from a thin, white face on which his own 
tears were fast falling. 

(i Come, my boy, no time to lose. You 
know me ? Bob "dear, quick, say you know 
me — your father, Bob, it's only your father ; 
you must get out of this, no one knows but 

ine, Bob, no one will know, no one will 
follow you — quick, quick." And with a sob 
in his throat, he turned round and saw me. 
He had forgotten my existence, but now 
seemed to think that I knew everything. 

No explanation that this was his lost son, 
whom he had tracked to earth, and whose 
discovery was to bring him so much credit. 
No thought of the object for which he had 
come. The detective was not there ; in his 
place stood a broken-hearted father, with 
but one thought in his mind, how best to 
get his unhappy son out of the reach of 
the law which had so nearly caught him. 

u Come," he cried, in a hoarse whisper 
to me, " help him to stand, he is weak ; we 
must arrange for him.'' 

I had looked round the place. The 
squalid poverty of the uncleaned room, the 
well-worn pack of cards lying on the chair 
by the bed, the 
empty bottle on the 
other side, and the 
stale smell of spirits 
and tobacco in the 

room all told the sametak-, 
Frr.LRF. of a wak." and bore silent but unmis- 
takable witness to the com- 
plete mastery of evil habits. 

But of all this George seemed to see 

The sharp-searching scrutiny of the 
detective had given place to the loving 
look of a father, to whom all forgiveness 
was possible. 

With hasty hands he had taken off his 
hat, greatcoat, and scarf, and was now 
hurriedly putting thern on the figure, who 
offered no help, and who seemed too dazed 
and bewildered to speak. 

" Here is money, my boy," he whispered 
Original from 



in a husky voice ; " it is all I have now, but 
vou shall have more ; and here, take tart of 
this," hurriedly writing a few words upon a 
scrap of paper.' " Sec, I put it in the breast 
pocket with the purse. It is the name of a 
house at Liverpool. Stay there till 
you hear from me, and then you 
shall get right away from this. There 
is a cab waiting at the corner ; tell 
him to drive to the nearest station. You 
follow me, Bob. you understand what I 
have said ? The money is here in this 

pocket. Now quick ! if anyone " I read 

the thought in his heart. What if someone 


had come on the clue which had helped 
Aim, and should be already on the way. 
Is that a foot on the stair ? No, all is 

M Now go, I dare not go with you. Do 
not lose a moment. Downstairs," and then 
to the Jeft. Tell him to drive fast. God 
bless you, Bob;" and following him to the 
head of the stair with broken utterances of 

endearment and caution, George watched 
the unsteady figure descend the steps, and 
listened with strained ears until he caught 
the sound of wheels driving rapidly 

We waited fur what seemed to me a long, 
long time, in a silence which 1 dared not 
break. And then we went out into the wet 
and deserted street. 

We stopped at the corner where the cab 
had waited ; and I watched my friend as he 
stood under the gas-lamp, looking out into 
the darkness with a far-away look in his 
eyes, not knowing, or at least not heeding, 
that the rain was heal- 
ing upon his uncovered 

There is a better smilu 
on his face now, than 
the smile he wore early 
in the evening at the 
thought of his coming 
success. His reputation 
would suffer greatly, be- 
yond doubt, but what is 
that to him ? 

He stands there a 
defeated — and a happy 

I always meet Miles 
when I want to keep out 
of his way. So I was 
not surprised to come 
across him next day, 
walking by the Horse 

M Ha, ha ! " he shouted 
boisterously, before we 
bad well met. " Queer 
go, wasn't it? What 
was? You haven't heard 
from Markson ? Oh, of 
course, he would be as 
mute as a fish. Hard 
lines on him, too, when 
he had got the whole 
thing as neat as could be. 
Went to the very house 
yesterday where Allan 
was. The man at the 
pub. saw him go into the house. Ha ! ha ! 
what does my lord Allan do ? Awfully- 
sharp fellow ! lets himself down by a rope 
out of the back window, and goes off in 
Markson's own cab— not bad, ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Markson rushed after him too late. 
Smollett is furious that he was just out 
of it. He found out where Allan was 
hiding, and came on the scene a day behind 





the fair. Pity he did not get the chance. 
He'd have nailed him. Everyone says that 
Markson has made an awful mull of it, 
and now the fellow has got clean away, 
no one knows where. Who's the best 

man now ? You can't say much for your 
side, Tom." 

As I watched him stride away towards 
the park, I thought ; M Yes, but thank 
God, Smollett did not get the chance." 

Original from 

A Regiment on Wheels. 

3KERE is a hou^e in the 
Queen's-road, Chelsea, which 
is not without its history. 
It stands exactly opposite 
Chelsea Hospital, and there 
was a time when gay cavaliers 
of Charles II. 's reign frequented it, for in 
those merry days its first bricks were laid. 
On the top floor a small apartment is 
still to be seen, in the door of which is a 
small sliding opening capable of admitting 
the entrance and exit of a head. Not for 
decapitation, for tradition says that here 
stood the fashionable hairdresser, whilst 
handsome lords and fair ladies placed their 
heads through the aperture to have their 
wigs powdered and prevent the spoiling of 

their silks and velvets. Here, too, cells with 
iron gratings in the doors may be found. 
In 1820 the house was converted into a 
school of discipline, and so it remained 
until March of last year, when our regiment 
on wheels brought with them their iron 
steeds and transformed it into their " head- 
quarters." Its solid mahogany doors and 
ornamented marble mantelpieces remain 
as they were in the days of old — its gateway 
is intact, and probably the same fine trees 
are flourishing, but outside in unmistakable 
capitals is written, " Headquarters, 26th 
Midx. Cyclists," with a substantial flag-staff 
visible. Its fifteen or sixteen rooms now 
comprise an armoury, with its repairing 
bench, arm stands, andinnumerable lockers, 
which are leased at a yearly rental of 
25, 6d, to the members. The ser- 
geants' mess is a cosy abode, and the 
£ . officers' room — to which a corner 
;*"-. devoted to smoking is attached — is 
furnished in a style approaching ItKU- 
riuusuess, with basket and velvet pile 
chairs. There is an 

. excellent lecture-room, 

various offices, and the 

all - important canteen, 

the speciality of which 

*-; - v are its pork pi:: 5 ; and 

sausage rolls, dear to the 

heart and soothing to the 

appetite of- all average 

cyclists. Round its walls 

are many a fine military 

picture— "FloreatEtorm*' 

and " The Last Eleven* 

at Mai wand," " General 

Roberts ,1 and " Lord 

Wolseley," the " Queen " 

and the H Prince of 

Wales." There, too— 

possibly as a reminder 

to cyclists of the distant 

climes to which . their 

machines may yet travel on active service 

— arc picturesquely arranged assegais, 

ndian knives, and Burmese drums, 

which an enthusiastic cyclist took down 

from his own bedroom and transported 

to Chelsea. Look into the garden, some 

] 50 yard- long, where drills are held 

when the corps is not at the Guards' 

barracks, and peep in at the stable, where 

fifty or sixty machines may be easily 


OF .' 




accommodated. Such are the headquarters time I was in India during the Mutiny, I 
of the only volunteer regiment on wheels in do not remembe.-* pi ept when actually in 
the country — the pioneer corps amongst the hills for three ur four days' fighting — 

X do not remember one day's march, or 

all volunteers 

We are not unmindful of the useful work 
of our cyclists amongst the regulars. They 
are a goodly body t and at Aldershot a re- 

ally one fight in which we took part, where 
cyclists could not have been used with the 
greatest possible advantage " — we are in- 
clined to single out this 
regiment on wheels— die 
2bth Middlesex — who 
started with a handful of 
men as recently as April 1 , 
1888, and whose work can- 
not but prove highly in- 
teresting to the 800,000 
cyclists throughout Great 
Who suggested military cycling ? 
There ean be very little doubt that 
the idea of utilising wheels for 
military purposes has been brought 
over from the Continent, Italy 
appears to be first in the field; 
for, during the manoeuvres of 1875, 
markable multicycle called a " Victoria " a service of cyclists at Sorama were called 
may be seen, capable of carrying a dozen into requisition for carrying messages to 

riders, and conveying provisions and ammu- 
nition, &c. Neither do we forget that 
to-day amongst all the volunteer battalions 
throughout the kingdom nearly every one 
of thetn has a cyclist section attached to 
it, amounting in all to some 5,100 men, 
credit going to " The Artists " for holding 
the riding record. Twelve "artistic" cy- 
clists, under command of Sergeant Dixon, 
last year rode a distance 
of 102 miles in 16 hours 
55 minutes, fully armed, 
and out of this time they 
were forced to halt for 
five hours owing to an 
accident, making the ac- 
tual riding time a trifle 
ever the twelve hours. 

But, seeing that Sir 
Evelyn Wood has ex- 
pressed the opinion that 
Parliament could not 
make a mistake in sanc- 
tioning the raising of at 
least 20,000 volunteer 
cyclists, and Lord Wolse- 
ley has shown himself so 
strongly in favour of them 
— to quote his speech, he 
said : " There are very 
few countries in the world 
where you cannot use 
cycles. During the whole 

and fro. Both Germany and Austria have 
also found work for the military cyclists ; 
and, during the French autumn manoeuvres 
of 1 886, their skill as letter carriers was 
again put to the test. The honour of 
introducing the fighting cyclist in England 
apparently belongs to Colonel Tamplin, 
who employed them as scouts during the 
Easter manoeuvres of 1885, though atten- 
tion was drawn to this 
now important subject by 
Lieut-General J. Sprot 
four years previously. 
Colonel Stracey, of the 
Scots Guards, has also 
taken a great interest in 
this matter. We shall 
probably be correct in 
saying that no one has 
done more to popularise 
the movement than 
Lieut - Colonel A, R. 
Savile, who is the com- 
manding officer of the 
regiment on wheels. 

Lieut.- Colonel Savile 
is himself a thorough sol- 
dier, and is generally con- 
sidered to be a thorough 
tactician, and an excellent 
cyclist. He joined the 
Royal Irish in 186^, sol- 
t. diered up to iSSS, when 

Original from 


DRILL COMPETITION. ['"'■ W. Th'm'wt, t'Ampijrt. 

he retired, but before six weeks were up, 
owing to his love of soldiering and cycling, 
he found himself a member of the 26th 
Middlesex, which regiment he now com- 

The full strength of the 26th Middlesex 
Cyclist.-) Corps is a hundred and twenty 
— there being two companies, one in the 
South of London, the other in the West— 
and already they contemplate starting a 
fresh corps in the North of London. Many 
people are, no doubt, sceptical as to 
what this very formidable body are 
capable of in the way of useful 
work. Possibly it may be remembered 
that, at the Military Exhibition held last 
year, they showed their capabilities by 
performing a number of what might be 
termed fancy feats on the cycle, as smartly 
and successfully as our regulars do on 
horseback. We give a picture of the hody 
of men who, under the command of Capt. 
Phillips, gained the first prize in the Drill 
Competition, whilst the abilities of the 
members composing the team were recog- 
nised by the presentation of a silver medal 
to each one of them. Those who have seen 
the lemi m-cutting, U'tit-pegjjing, and tilting 
at the ring may be interested to know that 
the cyclist, in order to bring about a suc- 
cessful operation, fuund it necessary to 

ride his machine at the rate of sixteen miles 
an hour. The lemon was suspended by a 
single wire, and, on approaching it, the 
cyclist, whilst going at this high rate of 
speed, had to guide his machine with the 
left hand, whilst he slashed out at the fruit 
with his right. 

A word about the machines used. AH 
sorts and conditions of safety bicycles are 
called into requisition, The ordinary 
bicycle is never used. They are fitted 

up so as to carry 
the rifle at the 
side, which can 
b^ taken out in 
three seconds, a 
pouch »nflflg i|W | 



one hundred rounds of ball cartridge, 
signalling flag, &c., the whole weight _ of 
which is something under 70 lbs., including 
machine. When in full marching order, 
they can get along at the rate of ten miles 
an "hour, and often faster. 

We hear the latest invention in the way 
of military cycles is one by Mr. W. J. 
Cocks, of Ealing. This 
cycle has received the 
approval of some of the 
military authorities and 
below we give a sketch 
of the ame. It shows 
at a glance all the 
weapons of warfare 
carried by the cyclist 

The signalling flag 
is carried in a semi-per- 
pendicular position down the front fork. 
The rifle is to the right of the 
rider, lying in a central position 
along the centre of the machine, 


removed by the feet from a spring clip, the 
upper portion of which engages with the 
mud guard, passing through the same and 
putting a break on the wheel, thus pre- 
venting the machine moving forward 
or the wheel turning to an angle, 
the cycle leaning on the side prop 
still out of the vertical. Fixed to the 
handle bar is a valise, in which can 
be carried the kit. It seems probable 
that in time of action the mounted 
cyclist will be able to get within an 
easy distance of the field, dismount 
and detach his rifle in a couple of 
seconds, put his machine in a place 
of safety, and be on the scene of 
action quicker than he could by any 
other means. 
Amongst the 
r -, V>>3it*-» smartest tilings ' Jtji. which our lighting 

Not an inch of spare space is lost, as 
all the distance between the back and 
front wheel is taken up by a leather 
valise, which is divided into various 
parts, the upper portion of which 
carries a good supply of cartridge 
cases, and there is plenty of room 
below for the various travelling in- 
struments required incase of accident 
to the cycle, and for all other neces- 
saries. The whole thing weighs some- 
thing like 56 lbs, including the rifle. 
The standing gear is a very impor- 
tant item in the construction of this 
machine. A single prop or leg is 

Original from 


which communicated with 
London would have been blown 
up, and all further supplies to 
the besieged town stopped. 
This was no doubt due to the 
fact that the men on their 
bicycles under command of 

of doing with machines is the forming of a 
zereba for the defence of a road, as shown 
in our illustration. This is for the purpose 
of resisting cavalry, and is formed by some 
twenty or thirty machines, which are stacked 
onto one another; the men getting behind 
the cycles and firing at the approaching 
enemy. So clever are they at 
forming these cycling squares, so 
to speak, that the whole thing can 
be accomplished in some five or six Q 

seconds. Indeed, taken all round, 
the military cyclist is not only a 
very ingenious fellow, but a good 
way ahead of the ordi- 
nary infantry men ; in 
fact, he is ' really an 
infantry man on tem- 
porary wheels ; for, 
when engaged in fight- 
ing, he dismounts from 
his machine, places His 
cycle on the ground, 
or hides it in a hedge, 
and combats on foot. 
We have spoken of the 
ingenuity of the cyclist. 
The writer of this 
article went to Dover 
last Easter for the pur- 
pose of following this 
regiment on wheels, 
in order to see what 
practical use they would 
be in ttme of warfare. 
Had it not been for the 
cyclists, the bridge over 
the railway at Lydden 

fl iqwvftbta, Ikr&w "Ft v.' '■" ' 

Captain Holmes were able to reach the 
spot which the enemy desired, whereas had 
infantry men been singled 
out for the task, they would 



have been too late, and the enemy 
already in possession. 

Not the leant interesting weapon tar- 
ried by the cyclists, and used for the 
first time at the Easter manoeuvres, is 
the Gatling gun. This particular gun 


used is capable of discharging shot at a 
distance of one thousand yards, at the rate 
of six shots a second easily. It weighs 
Q7 lbs., the ammunition being carried in 
cases for ihe purpose. It is transported to 
and fro on a gun-carriage composed of four 
safety machines coupled to one another, 
and "ridden by four men. Not only is this 
quartette of cycles useful for this purpose, 
but an ambulance may also be carried 
with it. With this weighty load, over a 
smooth road, it can be ridden at the Tate 
of nine miles an hour. This idea of the 
best means of getting a Gatling to and fro 
belongs to Sergeant Watkins, and with this 
weapon he did some deadly work (imaginary, 
of course) at Dover. 

A somewhat amusing incident was wit- 
nessed by the writer, who stood by the side 
of the Gatling on the hill some few miles 
from Kearsney, near Dover. The gallant 
sergeant found his ammunition exhausted ; 
there was no more to be had. It suddenly 
occurred to the officer in charge of the men, 
who had now left the machines on which it 
had been carried, and were lying on the 
ground ready to let go at the enemy with 
their rifles, that the impression might be 
conveyed that the Gatling pun was still 
blazing away by the men firing in quick 
succession one after the other, This was 
dime, and the result of this ingenious 

subterfuge was thai 
many of the enemy 
imagined that they 
were still being anni- 
hilated by the mur- 
derous weapon. 
The Duke of Cam 
bridge, who is a strong adherent of military 
cycling, singled out this regiment on wheels 
for his special approval at the late Easter 
manoeuvres. When he saw the Gatling 
gun on its carriage, he gave the command 
that the gun should at once be put into 
action. The men sprang from their 
machines, dismounted the gun, placed it 
ready for firing, took up their positions, 
the whole thing being accomplished in 
twenty seconds. The Duke encouraged 
the men by saying most heartily, " Very 
creditable, very creditable." 

A story, however, may be told which 
will show that there was a time when our 
Commander-in-Chief had his doubts of the 
efficacy of cycles being adapted for military 
purposes: this happened in 1887, the first 
appearance of military wheelmen at Dover, 
Some two or three miles from the seaport 
town there is a picturesque little village 
called Kearsney, and amongst its sights is a 
particularly steep hill leading to St. Radi- 
gund's Abbey. The Duke chanced to 
pass where the military cyclists were con- 
gregated together, and approaching the 
officer in command, good-humouredly 
looking up at the hill, his Royal Highness 
said, " Well, I've no doubt your men are a 
capable body, but I question whether any 
could possibly mount thai hill." 
1 lli at there was a very 


Now it so happe 


OF ,' 




fast riiler present, an i-xccptioually power- 
ful man on wheels, Mr. M, D. Rucker. 
This little fact the commanding officer 
knew, and . asked the Duke for permission 
to put his remarks to the test ; this was 
readily granted, and away Mr, Rucker went 
on his machine, the Duke himself watch- 
ing him for a considerable distance until at 
last he rode away himself. Some time 
passed by, when again the cyclist body 
found itself near to the Duke : once more 
riding up, he asked, " Is that man back 
yet ? when our smart cyclist imme- 
diately stepped up with a salute, and said, 
;i Yes, sir, here I am," We are probably 
right in saying that this was the foundation 
of the Duke's faith in utilising cyclists for 
military purposes, as having sent a horse- 
man with him, at the first six-barred gate, 
which was locked, the cyclist lifted his 
machine over, leaving the unfortunate "gal- 
loper " behind, his horse refusing to " take " 
the gate. 

The important question now arises as to 
what advantage the propeller of the iron 
steed has over the ordinary rider on horse- 
back. In the first place, we cannot dn 
better than quote the estimate of the cost 
of a mount of cavalry in proportion to that 
of cyclist infantry as compared by Captain 
Eustace Balfour, of the London Scottish, 
in a paper he contributed to The Uitilrrf 
Service Magazine twelve months ago. His 
estimates are as follow : - 

Cyclist Lnfaktry. 

Cost of cycle per 
man, £12. 

Life of cycle (say 
six years), therefore 
cost per annum, £2. 

Repairs, nil, &c, 
say £l. 

Total cost per an- 
num, ^3, 


Again, the machines are more easily con- 
veyed by rail, as many could be stacked in 
the space occupied by a single horse. On 
the score of staying power, it is calculated 
that a man could ride a cycle thirty miles 
and be just as fit for marching as an infantry- 
man would be, fresh to the task, without 
having had the benefit of the thirty miles' 
start. Machines, too, are noiseless ; but 
what strikes us as the greatest advantage of 
all is the fact that cyclists are able to ride 
along roads unseen, whereas a cavalryman 
traversing the same path would be imme- 
diately spotted, on account of the dust 
his horse's hoofs would raise on a dry 
day. A man on his machine, by 
bending over the handles somewhat, is 
really able to make himself shorter than 
the ordinary foot soldier ; he still keeps on 
his way, being covered by the hedges, and 
the chances are that he will arrive at his 
destination with a far greater amount of 
certainty than the man on horseback. 

The principal duties which the cyclists 
have to perform are those of carrying 
despatches, skirmishing, and reconnoitring. 
Owing to the long distance which they are 
able to cover in a short space of time, they 
are likely to prove very successful in the 
way of making sketches of the surround- 
ing country, reporting on the probability 
of provisions, the state of the roads, rail- 
ways, rivers, and canals the situation of 
fortified places, indeed, all the thousand and 

Cost of horse, £m. 

Useful life (sVy 
seven years), there- 
fore cost per annum, 

Maintenance, £40. 
Total cost per an- 
num, /45. 

It will at once be 
seen that the cyclist 
is by a long way the 
cheaper of the two. 

"j^jt (HjijW^ptt^ 


3 8 


one items of observation which constitute 
reconnoitring duties. As patrols they are 
unquestionably useful, and a capital example 
is that afforded by the ingenuity of a 
number of cyclists who cleverly managed 
to get through the enemy's lines and gain 
the required information as to what was 
their strength. This force was told off to 
get through the lines at any cost. Our 
heroes of the wheel, seeing a waggon filled 
with straw passing along the road, induced 
the driver for a consideration to let them 
take shelter with their machines underneath 
the straw j this he 
agreed to do, and by 
this means they got 
through the outpost 
line, did their spy- 
ing, and returned in 
perfect safety the 
same way that they 

It is needless to 
say that the cyclists 
hare to put up with 
a fair share of good- 
humoured chaff from 

their rival, the cavalryman, but the hoTse- 
man is beginning to recognise the fact 
that his brother rider is becoming a sub- 
stantial acquisition in matters military, and 
almost regards him with respect. Our 
regiment on wheels seems to be wanting in 
only one thing — a band. Many sugges- 
tions of a decidedly humorous nature have 
already been made, the most likely of 
which is the idea of a member of the corps 
for a huge musical box, to be ridden in a 
similar style to that of the Gatling gun 
on four machines. He is of opinion that 
in this age of 
„ invention it 
should be pos- 
sible to con- 
struct a mu- 
sical machine 
in such a way that 
as the riders work 
i he treadles so should 
the "bandbox" give 
forth martial strains 
to cheer the cyclist 
on as he went forth 
to meet the foe, 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives, 

girl of six. Such was her appearance when 
the Duke, as the friend and neighbour of 
the Prince of Wales in Scotland, first knew 
the young Princess, with whom he was 
afterwards to make the happiest and most 
popular of marriages. The Duke of Fife is 

a partner in the London banking firm of 
Sir Samuel Scott & Co. He is also Lord 
Lieutenant of Elginshire, and Hon. Colonel 
of the Banffshire Artillery Volunteers, 

Born 184^. 

HUR first portrait of the Duke 
of Fife, in which he is fitly 
represented in the native 
costume of his country, was 
taken in the year ;8bo, when 
he was eleven years old. His 
title was at that time Lore! Macduff. He 
was then preparing for Eton, which, in due 
course, he entered, and where he was ex- 
tremely popular. At the age of twenty- 
five, at which date the second of our 
portraits represents him, he had just en- 
tered the House of Commons as the 
Member for Elgin and Nairn — a position 
which he continued to occupy for five years. 
It is interesting to compare with this pre- 
sentment of the Duke the portrait of his 
future wife, taken at about the same dale, 
which we gave in our last number, and 
which represents her as a charming little 




on the Pompadmtr, the graceful SL'Ua in 
" Captain Swift," and the loving daughter 
in " The Village Priest," are characters all 
fresh in the memory of all appreciative 


[?HE accompanying portraits, 
taken from photographs, give 
us Mrs, Beerbohm Tree at 
various age*, and will be most 
interesting to her many ad- 
mirers. As we look at them, 

we see the in- 
telligent child 
growing into 
the gifted girl, 
and giringevery 
promise of the 
cultivated, ac- 
complished wo- 
man — a promise 
well fulfilled. 
Her marriage 
with Mr. Beer- 
bohm Tree in 
1882 was the 
occasion of her 
adopting the 
stage as a pro- 
fession, of which 
she has ever 
since been an 
adornment. Her 
success has b«en 
very great in 
many and very 
different rtihs. 
Hester Goufd in 
" The Million- 
aire," Lady In- 
gram in " The 
Scrap of Paper," 
Belinda in "En- 
gaged," and later 

f row o fhuto t>v) 

playgoers ; and 
it is only to be 
regretted that 
Mrs. Tree has 
been unable to 
take part in the 
production at 
the Haymarkel 
of "The Dancing 
Girl,'' which has ■ 
created the 
greatest sensa- 
tion of any play 
yet produced 
there. Mrs. 
Tree's return to 
the stage, which 
takes place this 
month, is a mat- 
ter of congratu- 
lation to all 
playgoers who 
admire intelli- 
gence and 
beauty in dra- 
matic art. 

We are in- 
debted for these 
portraits to the 
kindness of 
_ Mrs. Beerbohm 

y.iw*. TreC ' 




ll'aii<ti» 9 . 

I'm i 


r** \ 



AGE 34. 

ill avail 


Born 1829. 



j may be pro- 
nounced the 
most famous and 
popular journalist the II 
Victorian efa has pro- " 
duced. In 1846, when 
he was but 17 years of 
age, he was scene 
painter to the late 
William Beverley at 
the Princess's Theatre. 
Two years later we find 
him a draughtsman on 
wood and editor of a 
paper called Chat. In 
1850 he painted the -7^7^ 

comic panorama for 
Soyer's Symposium, 
and at the age of 23 he 
joined Household 
Words with the friend 
of his childhood, 
Charles Dickens. He 
remained with Dickens 
till ] 856, having mean- 
while engraved I he 
panorama of the Duke 
of Wellington's funeral, 
which somewhat im- 
paired his eyesight. 
He then visited Russia 
to learn the language, 
and a year later joined 
The Daily Telegraph. 
Mr, G. A. Sala is now 
in his 62nd year, and 
his pen is as vigorous, 
powerful, and pic- 
turesque as in the days 
of his youth. 

fflPMKI (Sff 



EORM l82f). 

jjT 19, Mr. Marks was studying 
art at Leigh's Academy. At 
23 he was a Royal Academy 
student. At 27, he had just 
painted his great picture, 
" Toothache in the Middle 
At 41 he was elected an A.R.A. ; 
] 157a, R.A. By the courtesy of Mr. 
Marks, the second of our " Illustrated In- 
terviews " will give a most interesting 
account of himself and his work. 




endorsement in Berlin, where she played 
Ada Ingot in " David Garrick," in German, 
and sh;ired with Mr. Wvmlham the laurels 
won from the critical German audiences. 
Miss Moore's presence on the stage is dis- 
tinguished by grace, sweetness, and beauty, 
and her appearance in a new character is 
always regarded with interest. 


ciation with dramatic art com- 
menced when, a child of three, 
she appeared in some private 
theatricals as a fairy in " Cin- 
derella." She was but sixteen 
years of age when she married James 
Albery, of '' Two Roses " fame. In Septem- 
ber, i88f, she was playing with Charles 
Wyndham in " The Candidate " at Liver- 
pool, and she afterwards came to London 
to join the regular Criterion company. 
The success she achieved received emphatic 



Frnm a Photo, hi 

; Hb 

James playing Our Mr. Jenkins; and r.n 
January 16, 1875, the ever-memorable "Our 
Boys " commenced its phenomenal career. 
Mr, James's admirable and masterly per- 
formance of Perkvn Middlewick lifted him 
at once into the front Tank of comedians ; 
and night after night, for four y?ars and 
three months, the Vaudeville was the scene 

of as honest and healthful laughter as was 
ever heard within a theatre's walls, In 
1886 he went to the Gaiety Theatre, and 
was afterwards specially engaged by Mr. 
Charles Wyndham. There are few more 
popular comedians than Mr. James. 

ROM the Princess's Theatre, 
then under the management 
of Charles Kean, Mr. David 
James, quite a young lad, 
migrated to the Royalty 
Theatre, where, in Burnand's 
" Ixion," he played the part of Mercury. 
Six years afterwards he took an important 
step by assuming the management of the 
Vaudeville Theatre, in association with 
Harry Montague and Thomas Thorne, 
There " Two Roses " was produced, Mr. 

from q I'linlo fciii f kESKNT BAY. C™» -* 




Bor.v 1848. 
O'Rcll ") was born in Brit- 
tany, and received his com- 
mission in the French cavalry 
at the age of 2t. Having 
been severely wounded, he 
retired with a petition, and tame to Eng- 
land. In 1 5 $2, while master at St. Paul's 

School, lie published the enormously suc- 
cessful " John Bull and His Island." Max 
O'Rell married an English lady, who trans- 
lates all his books into English, and who is 
herself — as the reader may judge for himself 
by the fol^w-h^tpry- -a dianmng writer. 

Shter Gabrielle. 


By His Wikk. 

jHEN the Franco - Prussian 
War broke out I was a young 
girl, and the awful news of 
the commencement of hos- 
tilities made a profound im- 
pression upon me. When, 
four years later, I met and married my 
husband, it was one of my great delights to 
get him to tell me M all about the war." Of 
the many reminiscences of his soldier days, 
none, perhaps, interested me more than the 
story of a sweet nun who nursed him in St, 
Malo Hospital. This is the story just as I 
heard it for the first time years ago. I 
hope it will not lose too much by not being 
told in French, as it was then given to me. 
"We were sitting by the bridge of Neuilly, 
near the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris ; 
<! There," said my husband, +l is just about 
the spot where I was knocked over. We 
were fast getting the better of the Com- 

munards, and my men were warming to 
the work in grand style, when the piece of 
spent shell hit me, and some of the fellows 
carried me off to hospital. I remsmber 
being puzzled that there should be rela- 
tively no pain in a wound of that sort ; but 
the pain came soon enough when the fever 
set in. The doctor of the Versailles Hoi* 
pital was a rough specimen, as army doc- 
tors often are — in France, at any rate — and 
you may fancy that the groans and moans 
of tire other wounded were not soothing 
either. One day the doctor told me I 
should soon be able to be removed to a 
country hospital. That was after I had 
been under his treatment for six weeks. 

"The sights, sounds, and smell of the 
place had grown so sickening to me that I 
thin'.. I could have kissed him when he 
talked of sending me to St. Malo. He 
came in one morning, and, in his brusque 
way, said, as he probed the 
wound for bits of shattered 
bone : 

M ' We shall be able to 
pack you off in a few days. 
You would like to get trans- 
ferred to St. Malo, would 
you not ? You come from 
that part of the country, 
don't you ? The air will 
suit you." 

"He was a brute, but he 
had awfully good cigars, and 
used to make me smoke one 
when he was going to have 
an extra go at my wound. I 
suppose he hoped the good- 
ness might prove infectious. 
I used to call him strings of 
bad names while he was 
digging away at his work on 
my arm, Somehow it re- 
lieved me, and, truth to tell, 
lie took it all in good part. 

'' In a few days, then, I 
saw the last of him, and he 
of me ; and glad enough was 
I to find myself in the clean, 
quiet, nun-tended hospital in 
the dear old Breton town. 
There I had a room to uiy- 
Origina^ffcltft^ch officer had ; and 




to lie there in that 
sweet, sunny room 
and hear no groans 
but my own was 
almost like being 
in heaven. The 
daily cleanings of 
the wound, still 
pretty painful, 
were recommenced 
under the hands of t 
another surgeon, \ 
who proved to be 
a very good fellow. } 
He and I struck up 
quite a friendship 
after a while. 

M Well, life was, 
if not exactly rosy, 
at any rate once 
more worth living. 
The brightness and 
calm were very 
sweet after the 
horrors of the 
Versailles hospital, 
and a serenity filled 
the air, like an 
echo of organ tones brought in by the 
nuns from chapel. 

"The nun who attended to me was an 
angel. Don't be jealous. I was there in 
St. Malo three months. Before one month 
had passed, I had grown to love her as I 
should have loved my sister, if she had 
lived. I loved the sound of her voice, and 
the touch of her deft, gentle hands. I 
would have gone through the surgeon's 
probing 4 ; without a groan, if she might 
have re - bandaged the arm afterward*. 
But Dr. Nadaud always did that him- 
self. Sister Gabrielle— that was what 
they called her— would come directly he 
had done with me, and would try the 
bandages to make sure they were not 
hurting, arrange the pillows afresh, and 
smooth out the wrinkles in the coun- 
terpane, and my brow at the same time, 
sympathising with me all the while in 
the sweetest fashion possible. Her voice 
was a great part of her charm : very low, 
and yet the clearest voice in the world. 
She had a way of looking at one all the 
time, too, with a gaze that was almost like 
a mother's caress, and that wrapped one 
around with a delicious feeling of security 
and well-being. Sometimes she would sit 
and talk with me about the battles, and 
lead me into chats about my mother, who 

was ill herself at 
this time, and not 
able to come to 
see me. 

" ' How old was 
Sister Gabrielle ? ' 
Oh, I suppose she 
must have been 
about twenty -four 
or five then. She 
had the Norman 
blue eyes, and a 
fair complexion, 
which the white 
wrappings about 
her face seemed to 
heighten and irra- 
diate. Is it the 
white lawn, or is 
it a beauty that 
the self - denying 
life lends to them, 
which makes the 
faces of so many 
of those women 
look so lovely ? I 
called Sister Gabri- 
elle an angel just 
now, but you must not fancy there was 
any cold saintliness about her ; in fact, it 
was her very ready sympathy with all 
my accounts of my young life in the 
outer world that drew out my heart to- 
wards her. It was her very womanli- 
ness that soon set me wondering who she 
could have been, and what had led her to 
shut herself away from the world. There 
was little to do, lying there in bed^week 
after week, and hundreds of times, as I 
looked at that sweet woman moving about 
the room, I pictured her without the coif, 
and said to myself that if she were not then 
a beloved wife, with a husbandV protecting 
arm around her, and children climbing 
about her knees, it was not because the love 
that should have led to this had been 
wanting, but certainly because some marring 
chance had prevented the realisation of 
such happiness. It amused me to * make 
a pretty history to myself/ with Sister 
Gabrielle for the heroine. A woman with 
a voice like hers, and such a smile, was 
bound to have loved deeply. Sometimes, 
when she was not speaking, her eyes had a 
sad far-away look. I can only compare it 
to the look that an emigrant who was toil- 
ing along a hot, dusty high-road to embark 
for a new country, might turn and give to 
the despot that he had said^a long good- 


bye to. But that look never lasted more 
than a minute on Sister Gabrielle's face. Jt 
was as if the traveller settled his burden 
afresh on his shoulders, and with fresh, 
vigorous resolution, stepped on into the 
long expanse of road that went stretching 
away to the horizon, 

" "One day — I could not help it — I broke 
into one of those little reveries of hers. 

" ' My sister/ I said, ' sweet and beautiful 
as you are, how is it that you never 
married ? ' 

(1 With lifted finger, as one speaks to a 
too daring child, she said only ; ' Sssshh ! ' 

" Then, with the movement of the emi- 
grant readjusting his knapsack, she added : 
' Allans! half-past ten ! Dr. Nadaua will 
be here before we are ready for him ! ' 

" From that day Sister GabrieH'e avoided 
sitting by my bedside. She Matched over 
me just as tenderly as before ; but our talks 
were shorter, and I never ventured to 
repeat my question, 
as you may imagine. 
Nevertheless, lying 
there through the 
long days, it was im- 
possible not to go on 
wondering what had 
sent this beautiful 
woman into the 
rough groove where 
1 found her. 

"One day I dis- 
covered that Dr. 
Nadaud came from 
the same town as 
herself, and I fell at 
once to questioning 
him about her. All 
that I could elicit 
from him was that 
her name in the 
world had been 
Jeanne D'Akourt, 

and that she came of a good old Norman 
titled family. I did not learn much by 
that ; it was not necessary to hear that 
she was noble, for she had the stamp of 
nobility in every line and in every pose 
of her body. For a talkative fellow, I 
thought Nadaud had remarkably little to 
say about his former townswoman ; and, 
after gently sounding him once or twice 
on the subject, I came to the conclusion 
that it was useless to look to him for en- 
lightenment, but I also came to the con- 
clusion that Sister Gabrielle had a history. 
" August came. I had been three months 

in St. Malo Hospital, and now the time fur 
leaving it had arrived. 

M It was early morning. A fiacre stood 
at the gate, with my luggage upon it, and 
Sister Gabrielle had come to the doorway 
which led into the courtyard to see me off. 
Early as it was, the sun was already well 
on his day's journey, and perhaps it was 
the strong glare from the white wall that 
made her shade her eyes so persistently 
with her left hand while we were saying 
1 Good-bye.' As for my own eyes, there 
was something the matter with them, too, 
for the landscape, or so much of it as I 
could see from the St. Malo hospital door- 
way, had taken on a strange, blurred look 
since I saw it from the window ten minutes 

" * Adieu, mnn lieutenant ! Adieu P cried 
Sister Gabrielle, in a voice meant to be 
very cheery. 

" ' 'Adieu, ma iceur / May I come to see 
you and the old 
"x. place, if ever I find 

myself in these lati- 
tudes again ? ' 

" ' Yes, yes, that is 
it ; come back and 
see who is in your 
little bed under the 
window. Take care 
of the arm ! ' touch- 
ing the sling that 
held it, ' Dr. Nadaud 
will expect a letter 
from you in copper- 
plate style before 
another month is 
over. Allans / We 
will say, An rcvu'r, 
then, not Adieu. 
Bon voyage, mun 
lieutenant^ ban 
voyage / ' 

" Another hand - 
grasp, and I made my way to the cab, 
feeling a strange intoxicated sensation at 
being once more on my legs in the open 
air after such a long stretch between the 
blankets. Away wc rattled down the steep 
stone-paved street, past the queer old high 
houses that, as the window-shutters were 
swung back, seemed to open their eyes 
and wake up with a spirited relish for 
another day's bustle and work. Very 
different, mv dear, to the lazy drawing up 
of a roller-blind in England is' the swinging 
open of a ">;iir nf Ficuch pcrsirmics. Whiffs 

of '^H|VrSv^^fteff round Loffcti 



floated out from the open doorways of the 
baker, and the earliest risers of St. Malo, 
and presently the pungent, invigorating 
odour of the sea made itself smelt in spite 
of the mixed odours of the street. It was 


new life to be out in the open air again ; 
and I was going to see my mother. But I 
could not forget Sister Gabrielle." 

Several years passed before my husband 
saw again the old steep streets of St, Malo. 
These years brought great changes to him. 
His right arm being no longer capable of 
using a sword, he retired from the army, 
took to journalism, and eventually accepted 
an engagement in London. In the English 
capital he made his home, marrying and 
settling down to a quasi-English life, which 
possessed great interest for him from the first. 

One summer (six years after the war) we 
began to make a yearly journey to a town 
on the borders of Brittany, and always 
landed at St. Malo to take train for our 
destination. Trains ran there only twice a 
day, and so there was generally time enough 
to climb the dirty, picturesque street to the 
hospital and see sweet Sister Gabrielle, 
whose face would light up at sight of her 
old patient, and whose voice had still the 
same sympathetic charm. When the now 
English-looking traveller presented himself, 
it was always the Mother Superior who came 
to him in the bare, cool room reserved for 
visitors. And then Sister Gabrielle would 
arrive with a sweet, grave smile playing 

about her beautiful mouth, and there would 
be long talks about all that he had been 
doing ; of the pleasant free life in England, 
of the English wife he had married, and of 
Bebe, a regular little Norman, whom he 
promised to bring and 
show her some day. 
But that day never 

One hot August 
morning, just seven 
years after he had left 
the hospital with his 
arm in a sling, my 
husband pulled at the 
big clanging bell, and 
asked to see Sister 
Gabrielle. He was 
ushered into the shady 
waiting-room, and 
stood drinking in the 
perfume of the roses 
that clambered about 
the open window. Pre- 
sently the Mother's 
steps approached, but 
when she saw him she 
had no longer in her 
voice the cheery notes 
with which she used to greet him, nor did 
she offer to send Sister Gabrielle to him. 

In a few sad words she told him his sweet 
nurse was dead, that she had died as she had 
lived, beloved by all who were privileged 
to be near her. There was no positive 
disease, the doctor had said, but some shock 
or grief of years before must have under- 
mined her health, and the life of self- 
sacrifice she led had not been calculated to 
lengthen the frail strand of her life. Gently 
and without struggle it had snapped, and she 
had drooped and died with the early violets. 
Touched and saddened, our traveller 
turned down the steep street to the lower 
town. More than ever he wondered what 
had been the history of the brave, beautiful 
woman who had nursed him seven years 

Turning the corner of the Plate Chateau- 
briand, he ran against a man. 
" Pardon, monsieur f " 
" Pardon, monsieur ! " 
The exclamations were simultaneous. 
Looking up, the two men recognised each 

"Ah, my dear Doctor!" exclaimed my 

" Saprish\ my dear Lieutenant ! What 
are you doing in St. Malo ? " 


OF ,' 



The younger man having properly ac- 
counted for his presence in the old Breton 
town, and made known to Dr. Nadaud how 
glad he was to see him again, the two went 
off together to lunch at the Hotel de Bre- 
tagne, where M. Bloutit had left his luggage. 

Having refreshed themselves with a light 
French dejeuner^ the doctor and his former 
patient strolled out of the long dining-room 
into the central 
courtyard of the 
hotel, which the sun 
had not yet made 
too warm ; and 
there, installing 
themselves at a little 
round table, under a 
huge laurel, they 
smoked and sipped 
their coffee, 

" I will tell you 
all I know," said 
the doctor, in reply 
to a question from 
his companion. "It 
seemed almost a 
breach of confidence 
to tell you Sister 
Gabrielle's story- 
while she lived, for 
I knew that she had - i ,vill tlll you all 

come away out of 

the world on purpose to work unknown, 
and to bury all that remained of Jeanne 
D'Aleourt. When she first came she 
seemed not at all pleased to see me ; no 
doubt because my presence reminded her 
of Caen, and of the scenes that she had 
turned her back upon for ever." 

"Well/ 1 continued Dr. Nadaud, "the 
D'Alcourts had lived for generations in a 
fine old house on the Boulevard de l'Est, 
and it was there that Jeanne was born. 
Next door lived my sister and her husband, 
M. Leconte, the chief notary of the town, 
and a man well considered by all classes 
of his townsmen. It is the old story of 
affections knotted together in the skip- 
ping rope, and proving to be as unend- 
ing as the circle of the hoop. My sister 
had a girl and a boy. The three child- 
ren played together, walked out with 
their nurses together, and were hardly 
ever separated, until the time came for 
Raoul to go to Paris to school. The 
boy was fourteen when thev parted ; 
Jeanne was only eleven ; but the two 
children's love had so grown with their 
growth that, before the day of parting 

came, they had made a solemn little com- 
pact never to forget each other. 

" Eight years passed, during which 
Jeanne and Raoul saw little of each other. 

" The first time the boy came home 
he seemed to Jeanne no longer a boy, and 
the shyness which sprang up between them 
then deepened with each succeeding year. 
" The boy was allowed to choose his 
profession, and he 
chose that of sur- 
gery. News reached 
Jeanne from time 
to time, through his 
sister, of the promis- 
ing young student 
who, it was said, 
bid fair to win for 
himself a great 
name some day. 

"At the age of 
twenty - two Raoul 
left Paris. His 
parents, who were 
growing old, wished 
their son near them ; 
and steps were taken 
to establish him in 
a practice in Caen. 
"Time passed on, 
mow," t.AiD the doctor. and Raoul had been 

six months in part- 
nership with old Dr. Grdvin, whom he 
was eventually to succeed, when Mme, 
D'Akourt fell ill of inflammation of the 
lungs, and so it happened that the two 
young people often met beside the sick- 
bed, for the elder partner was not always 
able to attend the patient, and his young 
aide was called upon to take his place. 

" By the time that Mme. D'Aleourt was 
well again, both the young people knew 
that the old love of their childhood had 
smouldered in their hearts through all the 
years of separation, and was ready to burst 
into flame at a touch. But no word was 

u It was Raoul's fond hope to be one day 
in a position to ask for Jeanne as his wife, 
but he knew that by speaking before he was 
in that position he would only destroy 
all chance of being listened to by her 

" The touch that should stir the flame 
soon came. 

"One day in the summer following, a 
hasty summons from Mme. D'Aleourt took 
Dr. Grevin to Jeanne's bedside, and a few 
moments 1 ex.j,mir;;iii<in. showed him that the 



poor girl had taken diphtheria. 
After giving directions as to the 
treatment to be followed, he said 
he would return late in the even- 
ing, or would send M. Leconte. 

14 It was Raoul who came. 

" With horror he saw that 
the case was already grave, and 
a great pang went through him 
as he spoke to Mme, D'Akourt 
of the possibility of its being 
necessary to perform tracheotomy 
in the morning. When morning 
came, in fact, all next day, Jeanne 
was a little better, and the young 
man hoped with a deep, longing, 
passionate hope. 

"The day after, however, it 
was evident that nothing could 
save the girl but the operation, 
and it was quickly decided to try 
this last chance. 

"The rest is soon told. In 
that supreme moment, as Raoul 
made ready for the work, the 
two young people told all their 
hearts' secret to each other in one long 
greeting of the eyes, that was at once a 
' Hail ' ! and a ' Farewell ' ! 

" The operation was successful. 

" All went well with Jeanne, and in two 
days she was declared out of danger. 

" But Raoul, unmindful of everything 
except Jeanne's danger, had not been care- 
ful for himself, and had received some of 
the subtle poison from her throat. 1 ' 

In the cemetery of Caen, high up where 
the sun first strikes, can be seen a grave- 
stone with the inscription : — 
Raoul Leconte, 
Dcccdc h 1.8 /itiltet, i860. 

And thir> is why Sister Gabrielle never 

Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 


/ rw* a l'hvhi. ty\ 

HEN the officers of the three 
regiments of Guards con- 
ceived the idea some twenty- 
v/A v ^' five years ago to build an 
'*'^ institute for their privates 
and non -commissioned offi- 
cers, they little thought that the great 
square building at the corner of Carlisle- 
place, near Victoria Station, would one day 
be converted into the residence of the 
Archbishop of Westminster. It was 
destined to be so, however, and was pur- 
chased in March, 1S73, for this purpose. It 
is hard to realise, as the door closes behind 
me, and with it shuts out the slightest 
noise of passing traffic, that His Eminence 
Cardinal Manning sleeps in a small corner 
of a great gallery where a stage once stood, 

UTfWi. £«»«<* r rif . 

and where red-coats once danced to the 
strains of merry music ; that the great 
reception-room was a few years ago fitted 
up with carpenters' benches, and Guards- 
men so inclined could try their skill with 
plane and chisel. Not a vestige of their 
presence remains. Nothing could be 
quieter or more simple. There is an air of 
solemnity about the place, this home of 
Cardinal Manning. 

I have just seen the Cardinal. The day 
is cold, and he wears over his black cassock, 
edged with the traditional red, a long over- 
coat. Around his neck is the gold chain 
and cross of the See, and on his finger a 
massive ring, set with a glorious sapphire 
given to him by the late Pope. His still 
bright eyes, in a fact;' typical of intense 




kindness, begin to twinkle merrily when I 
tell him I want to take his memory back 
to sixty or seventy years ago— his boyhood 
days. He is fond of children. He tells me 
that he has letters from them in the United 
States, Australia, Canada, and how on 
every birthday— he was born on July i §, 
1 80S — bunches and bunches of flowers 
come, the chapel and house are full of 
flowers. " But, go and see the house. In 
half an hour we will sit down and talk 

There is the house dining-room, the 
windows of which look on to the street, 
interesting from the fact that it contains 
authentic portraits of the Vicars Apostolic 
from the time of James L, since the breach 
with Rome On a pedestal near the win- 
dow is a bust of Father Mathew, the great 
temperance advocate ; and on the mantel- 
piece, on either side of the clock, are two 
small busts of Pius IX. and the present 
Pope, The Cardinal takes all his meals 
alone, and is next-door to a vegetarian. 
The domestic chapel is in close proximity 
to the dining-room. Through a little ante- 
apartment, where the vestments are kept, 
and past a small confessional exquisitely 
carved in oak, the door of the chapel is 
opened, and the rays of light stream 
through the windows on to a simple altar. 
Here, in a glass case, is the mitre of white 
silk, to which the gold trimming still clings, 
worn by St. Thomas a Becket, whilst in 
residence at Sens. At another corner is a 
relic of St. Edmund. There are seats on 

the green baize benches for a dozen wor- 
shippers ; the gilt chair once used by the 
Cardinal is in the centre, with a black knee 
cushion richly worked with flowers. The 
relics, one of the most precious collections 
in the kingdom, are preserved in a case at 
the far end. They are a sight of rare 
beauty — wonderfully carved specimens of 
Gothic work in ivory, elaborate gola\ silver, 




and silver-gilt work. Amongst the most 
precious of them all, contained in a piece 
of crystal, is a fragment of the column 
against which our Lord was scourged ; and 
set in a silver and enamelled shrine arc- 
three small pieces of dark wood, resembling 
ebony, round which are engraved the 
words : u Behold the wood of the cross on 
which our Saviour was hung." 

Ascending the stone steps leading from 
the entrance hall, I pass into an ante-room, 

Sas!>oon, and Sir Henry Isaacs, The Car- 
dinal's biretta, given to him by the Pope, 
is under a glass case, as it is always the 
practice of Cardinals to keep the one so 
given when raised to this exalted position 
and never wear it. Amongst the works of 
art — including one of Savonarola — is a 
magnificent painting by Louis Haghe 
representing "High Mass in St. Peter's, 
Rome, on Christmas Day." The picture 
is peculiarly interesting, for the artist died 


MB. , ; |-,.:| . 

- --T-: ■- ~~' > 

™ m W u 

" ' ' '3S v~ 




m*. ■ 

From • Phatwapli by} 


where stands a life-size bust of the Cardinal's 
father, William Manning, a London mer- 
chant, a Governor of the Bank of England, 
and sometime member of Parliament for 
Evesham, and afterwards for Fenrhyp. A 
very heavy statue of the Virgin Mary finds 
a place here. It was made from cannon 
taken at Sebastopol. The great reception- 
room, too, with its massive heavy gilt 
chairs, its richly carved cabinets, whereon 
are set out numerous treasures, is a fine 
apartment. On the tables are huge volumes 
containing the countless testimonials pre- 
sented from time to time. The latest of 
these tributes is on the wall near the door : 
that presented by the Jews on October 30, 
1890, and bearing such names as Lord 
Rothschild, Joseph Sebag Montefiore, Sir 
Julian Goldsmid, Reuben and Albert 

before he had time to light the wicks of 
the candles on the altar. 

The library is large, and the numerous 
book-shelves of black wood are well stocked 
with volumes. A portrait of the Duke of 
Norfolk, and an original oil painting of the 
late Cardinal Newman, rest against the wall. 
Many portraits of Cardinal Manning are 
scattered about, and there is a bust of him- 
self and his predecessor, Cardinal Wiseman, 
side by side over the fire-place. 

The Cardinal's bedroom is at the top ot 
the building. Here in a corner of the 
Guards' ball-room, some seven or eight 
small apartments have been made — little 
square abodes, homely and simple to a degree. 
These rooms very much resemble, s-ave 
that they are somewhat larger, the monks' 
cells in the Convent Church of San Marco 


OF .' 



llfettrt. KHiaH rf 

at Florence. The Cardinal has always slept 
in a camp bed. It is covered with a 
red eider-down quilt. Just a wardrobe, an 
armchair, a washstand T and on the dressing 
table at the open window little nicks-nacks 
of toilet are laid out with distinctive neat- 
ness, A door opens from the sleeping 
npartment to the Cardinal's private OTalory. 
Its almost quaint situation has secured for it 
the name of '' The Noah's Ark." An altar, 
almost unadorned, has been set up here — 
very plain and unpretentious. Look where 
you will, it is all suggestive of the quiet 
and gentle disposition of a great man, and 
the illustration shows the sanctuary as 
it is when the Cardinal passes from his 
bedroom in the morning. Exactly opposite 
" The Noah's Ark" is another small oratory, 
a trifle more decorative perhaps, but still 
remarkably simple. This is used by the 
bishops when visiting His Eminence. Just 
then the butler tells me that the stipulated 
half-hour is past. This old family servant 
may be regarded with interest, for when he 
first ushered me into the presence of the 
Cardinal, His Eminence remarked that he 
had served him for over a quarter of a cen- 
tury. His coachman had been with him 
quite as long, for of all things he disliked it 
was changing servants. 


Passing through 
the now ancient 
ball-room, round 
the walls of which 
are a plentiful 
supply of pails 
filled to the brim 
in case of fire, 
and descending 
the stone steps 
once more, a door 
leading from the 
library opens into 
the Cardinal's 
What a litter ! 
It is full of 
baskets, papers 
and pamphlets 
are scattered all 
over the place. 
Letters, bearing 
the postmark of 
every quarter of 
the globe, lie in 
aheap, waiting to 
be opened. The 
Cardinal, who sits 
in a great blue 
arm-chair, and rests back upon a red velvet 
pillow, expresses sympathy in my astonish- 
ment. There are no fewer than eleven 
tables about, and he happily remarks, 
" You cannot count the chairs, for every 
one of them is a bookshelf." Then in 
a voice of wonderful firmness, and remark- 
ably clear, he invites me to sit close to him, 
" Yes, every day brings a multitude of 
letters. I open them all myself. Many I reply 
to, and the remainder keep two secretaries 
busy all day. and then they are by no 
means finished. I have a long, long day 
myself. At seven I get up, and ofttimes do 
not go to bed until past eleven — working all 
the time. My dinner is early, at 1.30, and 
tea comes round at 7 o'clock. Newspapers ? 
I manage to get through some of the prin- 
cipal ones every day. Of course, I only 
1 skim ' them over, but I make a point of 
reading the foreign news." He merrily — 
and with great humility — remarked in 
reference to the many books he had written 
that he "had spoilt" as much paper as most 

" Will you tell me something about 
your boyhood ? " I asked, 

" Well, if you want me to talk nonsense 
I will say that it is a long way back to 
remember, for I am eighty-three, but I spent 





my childhood at Totteridge. As a boy at 
Coombe Bank, Christopher Wordsworth, 
late Bishop of Lincoln, and Charles Words- 
worth, Bishop of St. Andrews, were my 
playfellows, I frankly admit I was very 
mischievous. The two Wordsworths and I 
conceived the 
wicked inten- 
tion of robbing 
the vinery. 
The door was 
always kept 
locked, and 
there was 
nothing for it 
but to enter 

through the roof. There was 
a dinner party that day and 
there were no grapes. This is 
probably the only case on record 
where three future Bishops were 
guilty of larceny. We. ■ we 
punished ? No, we were dis- 
creet. We gave ourselves u^, and were 

" I was always fond of riding, shooting, 
boating, and cricketing. I well remember 
that with the first shot from my gun J 
killed a hare. That 
shot was nearly the 
means of preventing 
me from ever becoming 
eighty- three. My 
father s gamekeeper 
was with me at the 
time, and he was a 
very tall, heavy fellow, 
with a tremendous 
hand. When he saw 
the hare fall, he brought 
that same huge hand 
down on my back with 
ail his might, and a 
hearty ' Well done, 
master Henry ! ' His 
enthusiasm nearly 
knocked me out of 
the world. My shoot- 
ing inclinations, how- 
ever, once nearly ruined 
the family coach — in 
those days, you know, 
we used to have great 
cumbersome, uncom- 
fortable vehicles. I had a battery of can- 
nons, and my first target was the coach- 
house-door. One of these formidable 
weapons carried a fairly weighty bullet. 
Well, I hit the door — the bulkt went clean 

through, and nearly smashed the panel of 
the coach. 

"I went to Harrow when I was fourteen, 
and remained there four years. I fear I can 
tell you but little about my cricketing days. 
I wish I could say that ' our side ' won, but, 
alas ! in the 
three matches 
I played in 
against Eton 
and Winchester 
at Lords we 
were beaten 
every time. I 
certainly scored 
some runs, but 
their total is for- 
gotten. Then, 
as a boy, I was 
very fond or 
wood * carving, 
and the princi- 
pal articles of 
home manufac- 
ture were boats. 
I made many 
of them, and as 
a lad they used 
to constitute my 
birthday present 
to my youth- 
rul companions. 
After I had 
reached man- 
hood I found 
my stock of 
small river craft 
unexhausted, so I would 
give them away to my 
friends as small memen- 
tos of my boatingdays." 
Just then the Car- 
dinal had to reply to a 
letter brought in. He 
never uses a writing 
table, but pens his mis- 
sives on a pad resting 
on his knee, a practice 
he has followed for the 
last fifteen years. He 
has even written them 
with the notepaper 
placed in the palm of 
his hand. A few notes 
of his wonderful career are jotted down. 
From Harrow he went to Oxford. 

The Cardinal became a Catholic in 1851, 
previous to which he had been Rector of 
Lavington and. Graffhamj in Sussex, since 



1833, and ArchdAon of Chichester in 1840. 
On the death of Cardinal Wiseman in Feb- 
ruary, 1865, he was made Archbishop, and 
ten years later raised to the dignity of 
Cardinal. He became a teetotaler in the 
autumn of 1868, and has been a firm 
adherent to teetotal principles ever since. 

But the photo- 
grapht r is waiting. 
As the Cardinal sat 
down for a special 
picture for these 
pages he exclaimed 
wittily, "Well, you 
look like assassins, 
waiting to 'take' 
me." He tells a 
story, too, whilst 
the operator is 
changing one of 
the plates, as to 
how a member of 
his clergy was 
preaching in the 
open air in the 
East End, and an 
itinerant photo- 
grapher elbowed 
his room through 
the crowd and pre- 
pared to " catch " 
the cleric. The 
audience, however, 
were so much 
interested in the 
discourse, that one 
of them shouted 
out, " Now, then, 
get out with that 
shooting gallery ! " 

My visit to the 
Cardinal, however, 
was not only for 
the purpose of gathering some delightful 
reminiscences, but to ask his opinion on 
one of the burning questions of the hour. 
The great affection he has always had for 
the welfare of children, and the thoughtful 
kindness he has ever directed towards 
parents, suggested " Free Education," and 
His Eminence said : — 

" In the sense understood in America in 
their system of common schools, free for all 
classes and conditions, or in the sense 
understood in France, where the State pays 
for all degrees of education, I am as much 
opposed to free schools as possible. Lord 
Salisbury has spoken of assisted education, 

and I can attach to these words a sound 
meaning. Free schools display only a de- 
structive part of State education. 

'' What do you mean by ' national ' 
system ? " 

" I mean a system in which the nation 
educates itself. The education of children 
is a natural duty, 
or responsibility of 
the people itself, in 
all its homes and 
in all its localities ; 
and until parental 
duty has been ful- 
filled to the utmost, 
by the intelligence 
and energy of in- 
dividuals, I believe 
the intervention of 
the State to be 
premature and mis- 
chievous, because 
it obstructs the ful- 
filment of parental 
and natural duty. 

" Do you believe 
that a national 
system of education 
can ever exist with- 
out the assistance 
of the State ? H 

" No, unless it 
be in a very low 
and imperfect man- 
ner ; but I believe 
that the whole 
greatness of the 
Empire, and all 
our world - wide 
commerce, and all 
our national cha- 
racter itself, is the 
creation not of the 
State but of the 
intelligence, energy, and free-will of in- 
dividuals. This wa's the original principle 
from which it sprung. The State has 
come in to assist when the first founda- 
tions have been laid, and gives permanence 
and extension to the work of individual 
energy. It is said that ' trade follows the 
flag,' but there was no flag when trade first 
entered upon the foreign lands which have 
become our colonies. Individual energy 
goes first, and the State follows after. I apply 
this to what is termed the voluntary system 
of education in England. Individuals be- 
gan educating themselves and others, before 
the State granted a halfpenny to their 



[Mum.EliioU */cir. 

education, and I believe that it ought 
always to maintain itself in the same sub- 
ordinate position. I am not unconscious 
that people say, 'Where the voluntary sys- 
tem contributes hundreds of thousands the 
State contributes millions,' but the State 
can never contribute that which is of more 
value than all the millions in the Treasury 
— 1 mean the parental responsibility, the 
zeal, fidelity, patience, and self-sacrifice cf 
the body of teachers, and the docility and 
good conduct of children responding to 
those who treat them with love and care. 
This in the last twenty years has doubled 
the extent and the efficiency of the voluntary 
system, in spite of all poverty, which greatly 
burdens it, so that at this moment the 
poorest of the voluntary schools are running 
neck and neck with the Board Schools, 
which are the richest in the land. I would 
refer in proof of this to Mr. Chamberlain's 
speech at Birmingham last April, and to 
Mr. Stanley's excellent and generous pam- 
phlet upon the state of the schools at 

u Do you not approve of what the Govern- 
ment has done since the year '35 or '36 ? " 

u Very heartily ; only I think that the 
Government down to 1870, when it 

authorised School Boards to put their hands 
in the pockets of the people, has behaved in 
an unequal way, and I hope that assisted 
education will show that the Government 
has risen to a full sense of its respon- 
sibility. 1 ' 

" Do you mean that contributions of the 
parents or the department are sufficient for 
the voluntary system ? " 

" By no means ; I believe that the re- 
sponsibility of parents in ever}' home 
creates a responsibility of localities in every 
community or parish in the land. It is 
an absolute duty of local administration 
that the heads of such administration 
should take care that every child within 
their limits is duly educated. I believe, 
however, that the contribution of parents 
and the local rates, with assistance from 
the Treasury, will suffice for a voluntary 
■system of national education." 

14 Then, where are free schools ? " 

u I believe that every parent who is able 
to pay for the education of his children is 
bound to do so, but that others, the State 
included, are bound to pay for those who 
are unable to pay for themselves. In this 
sense, as a subordinate detail, I heartily 
accept free school?, but not the name." 




"Does not contribution from local rates 
involve local management ? " 

" Without doubt, so far a* to see that the 
local rates are honestly applied, but it is a 
universally established and admitted prin- 
ciple that neither grants from the Treasury 
nor rates from the locality can be applied 
to the teaching of religion. They are 
exclusively given for the secular education 
and efficient management of schools, outside 
the matter of reli- 
gion, and there- 
fore for that 
reason, and upon 
that broad prin- 
ciple, neither the 
inspectors of 
Government nor 
local managers, 
unless they be of 
the religion of the 
schools, have any 
right to make or 
meddle with any 
management ex- 
cept within the 
limits of the 
Government in- 

" I have had 
long experience of 
the yearly inspec- 
tion of the Home 
Office, the Educa- 
tion Department, 

of the Boards of 
Guardians of the 
Metropolitan Dis- 
trict, and I can 
bear witness that 
their visits and 
comments have 
been fair, just, and 
useful, and of great 
service to us and 
to our schools." 

tt Have you any 
objection to the 
School Board 
system ? " 

"Many, too 
many to enume- 
rate now, but four 
in chief : — 

"First: they 
,' make us pay edu- 

cation Tate to 
maintain their 
schools, which we 
cannot conscientiously use, leaving us, at 
the same time, to maintain our own. 

" Secondly : from the want of definition 
as to what are elementary or primary 
schools, the School Boards have in the 
last few years extended the curriculum of 
education up to the standard of Harrow and 
Eton, and have charged it upon the education 
rate paid by the poor. This was never in- 
tended by the Legislature in the year 1870. 





" Thirdly : there is no practical limit to 
the amount of rate that may be charged, 
and, in my belief, no audit of its expenditure 
sufficient to control its unlimited outlay. 

"Lastly: I have no confidence in un- 
denominational religion, which means a 
' shape that shape hath none.' " 

" What, then, do you wish that they 
were extinguished ? " 

" It is too late for me to wish them any- 
thing better than a definite faith ; but I 
desire to see a new and higher legis- 
lation, under which the Voluntary System 
and the Board Schools shall find their 
place, and their action controlled by a 
ju ter and more efficient administration." , 

Harry How. 

[Kcun. EUiolt $ Fn,, 


Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 

By A. Conan Doyle. 

30 Sherlock Holmes she is 
always the woman. I have 
seldom heard him mention 
her under any other name. 
In his eyes she eclipses and 
predominates the whole of 
her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion 
akin to love for Irene Adler. All 
emotions, and that one particularly, were 
abhorrent to his cold, precise, but admir- 
ably balanced mind. He was, I take it, 
the most perfect reasoning and observing 
machine that the world has seen ; but, as a 
lover, he would have placed himself in a 
false position. He never spoke of the softer 
passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. 
They were admirable things for the observer 
— excellent for drawing the veil from men's 
motives and actions. But for the trained 
reasoner to admit such intrusions into his 
own delicate and finely adjusted tempera- 
ment was to introduce a distracting factor 
which might throw a doubt upon all his 
mental results. Grit in a sensitive instru- 
ment, or a crack in one of his own high- 
power lenses, would not be more disturbing 
than a strong emotion in a nature such as 
his. And yet there was but one woman to 
him, and that woman was the late Irene 
Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. 
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My 
marriage had drifted us away from each 
other. My own complete happiness, and the 
home - centred interests which rise up 
around the man who first finds himself 
master of his own establishment, were 
sufficient to absorb all my attention ; while 
Holmes, who loathed every form of society 
with his whole Bohemian soul, remained 
in our lodgings in Baker-street, buried 
among his old books, and alternating from 
week to week between cocaine and ambi- 
tion, the drowsiness ,of the drug, and the 
fierce energy of his own keen nature. He 
was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the 
study of crime, and occupied his immense 
faculties and extraordinary powers of ob- 
servation in following out those clues, and 
clearing up those mysteries, which had 
been abandoned as hopeless by the official 
police. From time to time I heard some 
vague account of his doings : of his sum- 
mons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff 

murder, of his clearing up of the singular 
tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at 
Trincomalee, and finally of the mission 
which he had accomplished so delicately 
and successfully for the reigning family of 
Holland. Beyond these signs of his 
activity, however, which I merely shared 
with all the readers of the daily press, I 
knew little of my former friend and 

One night — it was on the 20th of March, 
1888 — I was returning from a journey to a 
patient (for I had now returned to civil 
practice), when my way led me through 
Baker-street. As I passed the well-re- 
membered door, which must always be 
associated in my mind with my wooing, 
and with the dark incidents of the Study 
in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire 
to see Holmes again, and to know how he 
was employing his extraordinary powers. 
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as 
I looked up, I saw his tall spare figure pass 
twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. 
He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with 
his head sunk upon his chest, and his hands 
clasped behind him. To me, who knew 
his every mood and habit, his attitude and 
manner told their own story. He was at 
work again. He had risen out of his drug- 
created dreams, and was hot upon the scent 
of some new problem. I rang the bell, and 
was shown up to the chamber which had 
formerly been in part my own. 

His manner was not effusive. It seldom 
was ; but he was glad, I think, to see me 
With hardly a word spoken, but with \ 
kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, 
threw across his case of cigars, and indicated 
a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. 
Then he stood before the fire, and looked 
me over in his singular introspective fashion. 

" Wedlock suits you," he remarked. " I 
think, Watson, that you have put on seven 
and a half pounds since I saw you." 

" Seven," I answered. 

" Indeed, I should have thougnt a little 
more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. 
And in practice again, I observe. You did 
not tell me that you intended to go into 

" Then, how do you know ? " 

" I see it. I deduce it. How do I know 



TffE ST&AND A i AG. 42 AVE. 

that you have been getting yourself verv 
wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy 
and careless servant girl ? " 

11 My dear Holmes," said I, " this is too 
much. You would certainly have been 
burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. 
It is true that I had a country walk on 
Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess; 
but, as I have changed my clothes, I can't 
imagine how you deduce "it. As to Mary 
Jane, she is incor- 
rigible, and my wife 
has given her no- 
tice ; but there 
again I fail to see 
how you work it 

He chuckled to 
himself and rubbed 
his long nervous 
hands together. 

'*It is simplicity 
itself," said he'; 
" my eyes tell me 
that on the inside 
of your left shoe, 
just where the fire- 
light strikes it, the 
leather is scored by 
six almost parallel 
cuts. Obviously 
they have been 
caused by someone 
who has very care- 
lessly scraped round 
the edges of the sole 
in order to remove 
crusted mud from 
it. Hence, you see, 
my double deduc- 
tion that you had 
been out in vile 
weather, and that you had a particularly 
malignant boot-slitting specimen of the 
London slavey. As to your practice, if a 
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling 
of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate 
of silver upon his right fore-fin ger, and 
a bulge on the side of his top-hat to show 
where he has secreted his stethoscope, I 
must bc'dull indeed, if I do not pronounce 
him to be an active member of the medical 

I could not help laughing at the ease 
with which he explained his process of 
deduction. "When I hear you give your 
reasons," I remarked, "the thing always 
appears to rne to be so ridiculously simple 
that I could easily do it myself, though at 

"each successive instance of your reasoning I 
am baffled, until you explain your process. 
And yet I believe that my eyes are as good 
as yours." 

" Quite so," he answered, lighting a 
cigarette, and throwing himself down into 
an armchair. "You see, but you do not 
observe. The distinction is clear. For 
example, you have frequently seen the steps 
which lead up from the hall to this 

" Frequently." 

" How often ? " 

" Well, some hundreds of times."' 

ib Then how many are there ? " 

" How many ! f don't know." 

"Quite *o'! Ycu have not observed. 




And yet you have seen. That is just my 
point. Now, I know that there are seven- 
teen steps, because I have both seen and 
observed. By the way, since you are in- 
terested in these little problems, and since 
you are good enough to chronicle one or 
two of my trifling experiences, you may be 
interested in this.'' He threw over a sheet 
of thick pink-tinted notepaper which had 
been lying open upon the table. " It came 
by the last post," said he. " Read it 

The note was undated, and without either 
signature or address. 

H There will call upon you to-night, at a 
quarter to eight o'clock," it said, " a gentle- 
man who desires to consult you upon a 
matter of the very deepest moment. Your 
recent services to one of the Royal Houses 
of Europe have shown that you are one 
who may safely be trusted with matters 
which are of an importance which can 
hardly be exaggerated. This account of 
you we have from all quarters received 
Be in your chamber then at that hour, and 
do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a 

" This is indeed a 

mystery," I remarked. " What 
do you imagine that it 
means ? " 

" I have no data yet. It is 
a capital mistake to theorise before one has 
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts 
to suit theories, instead of theories to suit 

facts. But the note itself. What do you 
deduce from it ? " 

I carefully examined the writing, and the 
paper upon which it was written. 

" The man who wrote it was presumably 
well to do," I remarked, endeavouring to 
imitate my companion's processes. " Such 
paper could not be bought under half a 
crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and 

" Peculiar— that is the very word,' 1 said 
Holmes. " It is not an English paper at 
all. Hold it up to the light." 

I did so, and saw a large E with a small 
#", a P, and a large G with a small t woven 
into the texture of the paper. 

" What do you make of that ? " asked 

" The name of the maker, no doubt ; or 
his monogram, rather.' 1 

"Not at all. The G with the small t 
stands for *' Gesellschaft," which is the 
German for " Company." It is a cus- 
tomary contraction like our " Co." P, 
of course, stands for " Papier." Now for 
the Eg Let us glance at our Continental 
Gazetteer." He took down a 
heavy brown volume from 
his shelves u Eglow, Eg- 
lonitz — here we are, Egrja. 
It is in a German - speaking 
country — in Bohemia, not far 
from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable 
as being the scene of the death 
of Wallenstein, and for its nu- 
merous glass factories and 
paper mills. 1 Ha, ha, my 
boy, what do you make of 
that ? " His eyes sparkled, 
and he sent up a great blue 
triumphant cloud from his 

" The paper was made in 
Bohemia," I said, 

" Precisely. And the man 
who wrote the note is a Ger- 
man. Do you note the pecu- 
liar construction of the sen- 
tence— 'This account of you 
we have from all quarters 
received.' A Frenchman or 
Russian could not have writ- 
ten that. It is the German 
who is so uncourteous to his 
verbs. It only remains, there- 
fore, to discover what is 
wanted by this German who writes upon 
Bohemian paper, and prefers wearing a 
■ mask to showing his face. And here he 
Original from 

6 4 


comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all 
our doubts." 

As he spoke there was the sharp sound 
of horses' hoofs and grating wheels against 
the curb, follrwed by a sharp pull at the 
bell. Holmes whistled. 

" A pair, by the sound," said he. " Yes," 
he continued, glancing out of the window. 

was lined with flame-coloured silk, and 
secured at the; neck with a brooch which 
consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots 
which extended hali way up his calves, and 
which were trimmed at the tops with rich 
brown fur, completed the impression of bar- 
baric opulence which was suggested by his 
whole appearance. He carried a broad- 

" A nice little brougham and a pair of brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore 
beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas across the upper part of his face, extending 
apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, down past the cheek-bones, a black vizard 

if there is nothing 
else. 1 ' 

"I think that I 
had better go, 

" Not a bit, Doc- 
tor. Stay where 
you are. I am lost 
without my Boswell. 
And this promises 
to be interesting. 
It would be a pity 
to miss it." 

"But your client 

" Never mind 
him. I may want 
your help, and so 
may he. Here he 
comes. Sit down in 
that armchair, Doc- 
tor, and give us 
your best attention." 

A slow and heavy 
step, which had 
been heard upon 
the stairs and in the 
passage, paused im- 
mediately outside 
the door. Then 
there was a loud 
and authoritative 

" Come in ! " said 

A man entered 
who could hardly 
have been less than 
six feet six inches 
in height, with the 
chf st and limbs of "* **" i 

a Hercules. His 

dress was rich with a richness which would, 
in England, be looked upon as akin to bad 
taste. Heavy bands of Astrakhan were 
slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his 
double-breasted coat, while the deep blue 
Cloak which was thrown over his shoulders 

mask, which he had 
apparently adjusted 
that very moment, 
for his hand was 
still raised to it as 
he entered. From 
the lower part of 
the face he appeared 
to be a man of 
strong character, 
with a thick, hang- 
ing lip, and a long 
straight chin, sug- 
gestive of resolution 
pushed to the length 
of obstinacy. 

" You had my 
note ? " he asked, 
with a deep harsh 
voice and a strongly 
marked German ac- 
cent. "I told you 
that I would call." 
He looked from one 
to the other of us, 
as if uncertain which 
to address. 

"Pray take, a 
scat t " said Holmes. 
" This is my friend 
and colleague, Dr. 
Watson, who is oc- 
casionally good 
enough to help me 
in my cases. Whom 
have I the honour 
to address ? " 

" You may ad- 
dress me as the 
Count Von Kramm, 
erbc* a Bohemian noble- 

man. I understand 
that this gentleman, your friend, is a man 
of honour and discretion, whom I may 
trust with a matter of the most extreme 
importance. If not, I should much prefer 
to communicate with you alone." 

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by 
Original from 


the wrist and 
pushed me back 
into my chair, u It 
Is both, or none," 
said he. M You may 
say before this gen- 
tleman anything 
which you may say 
to me.'' 

The Count 
shrugged his broad 
shoulders. " Then 
I must begin," said 
lie, " by binding you 
both to absolute se- 
crecy for two years, 
at the end of that 
lime the matter will 
be of in j importance. 
At present it is not 
too much to say 
that it is of such 
weight tint it may 
have an influence \ amm 
upon European 

" I promise/' said Holmes. 

" And I." 

" You will excuse this mask," continued 
our strange visitor. M The august person 
who employs me wishes his agent to be 
unknown to you, and I may confess at once 
that the title by which I have just called 
myself is not exactly my own." 

M I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly. 

" The circumstances are of great delicacy, 
and every precaution has to be taken to 
quench what might grow to be an immense 
scandal and seriously compromise one of 
the reigning families of Europe. To speak 

E Vainly, the matter implicates the great 
[ouse of Ormstein, hereditary kings of 

" I was also aware of that," murmured 
Holmes, settling himself down in his arm- 
chair, and closing his eyes. 

Our visitor glanced with some apparent 
surprise at the languid, lounging figure of 
the man who had been no doubt depicted 
to him as the most- incisive reasoner, and 
most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes 
slowly reopened his eyes, and looked im- 
patiently at his gigantic client. 

"If your Majesty would condescend to 
state your case," he remarked, M I should 
be better able to advise you." 

The man sprang from his chair, and 
paced up and down the room in uncontrol- 
lable agitation. Then, with ■ gesture of 

desperation, he tore the mask from his face 
and hurled it upon the ground, " You are 
right," h; cried, " I am the King. Why 
should I attempt to conceal it ? " 

;i Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. 

" Your Majesty had not spoken before I 
was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm 
Gottsreich Sigismond von Omtstein, Grand 
Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary 
King of Bohemia." 

" But you can understand," said our 
strange visitor, sitting down once more and 
passing his hand over his high, white fore- 
head, " you can understand that I am not 
accustomed to doing such business in my 
own person. Yet the matter was so delicate 
that I could not confide it to an agent with- 
out putting myself in his power, I have 
come incognito from Prague for the pur- 
pose of consulting you." 

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shut- 
ting his eyes once more. 

"The facts are briefly these : Some five 
years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, 
I made the acquaintance of the well-known 
adventuress Irene Adler. The name is no 
doubt familiar to you." 

iS Kindly look her up in my index. Doctor," 
murmured Holmes, without opening his 
eyes. For many years he had adopted a 
system of docketing all paragraphs concern- 





ing men and things, so that it was difficult 
to name a subject or a person on which 
he could not at once furnish informa- 
tion. In this case I found her biography 
sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew 
Rabbi and that of 'a staff-commander who 
had written a monograph upon the deep 
sea fishes. 

" Let me see ?"" said Holmes. " Hum ! 
Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. 
Contralto — hum ! La Scala, hum ! Prima 
donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw — Yes ! 
Retired from operatic stage — ha ! Living 
in London — quite so ! Your Majesty, as 
I understand, became entangled with this 
young person, wrote her some compromis- 
ing letters, and is now desirous of getting 
those letters back." 

" Precisely so. But how——" 

" Was there a secret marriage ? " 

" None." 

" No legal papers or certificates ? " 

" None." 

" Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If 
this young person should produce her 
letters for blackmailing or other purposes, 
how is she to prove their authenticity ? " 

" There is the writing." 

41 Pooh, pooh ! Forgery." 

" My private notepaper." 

" Stolen." 

" My own seal." 

" Imitated." 

" My photograph." 

" Bought." 

" We were both in the photograph." 

" Oh dear ! That is very bad ! Your 
Majesty has indeed committed an indis- 

" I was mad — insane." 

" You have compromised yourself seri- 

" I was only Crown Prince then. I was 
young. I am but thirty now." 

" It must be recovered." 

" We have tried and failed." 

" Your Majesty must pay. It must be 

" She will not sell." 

" Stolen, then." 

" Five, attempts have been made. Twice 
burglars in my pay ransacked her house. 
Once we diverted her luggage when she 
travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. 
There has been no result." 

" No sign of it ? " 

" Absolutely none." 

Holmes laughed. " It is quite a pretty 
little problem," said he. 

" But a very serious one to mc," re- 
turned the King, reproachfully. 

"Very, indeed. And what does she 
propose to do with the photograph ? " 

" To ruin me." 

" But how ? " 

" I am about to be married." 

" So I have heard." 

" To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Menin- 
gen, second daughter of the King of Scan- 
dinavia. You may know the strict principles 
of her family. She is herself the very soul 
of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to 
my conduct would bring the matter to an 

" And Irene Adler ? " 

" Threatens to send them the photo- 
graph. And she will do it. I know that 
she will do it. You do not know her, but 
she has a soul of steel. She has the face of 
the most beautiful of women, and the mind 
of the most resolute of men. Rather than 
I should marry another woman, there are 
no lengths to which she would not go — 

" You are sure that she has not sent it 
yet ? " 

" I am sure." 

" And why ? " 

" Because she has said that she would 
send it on the day when the betrothal was 
publicly proclaimed. That will be next 

" Oh, then, we have three days yet," said 
Holmes, with a yawn. " That is very for- 
tunate, as I have one or two matters of 
importance to look into just at present. 
Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London 
for the present ? " 

" Certainly. You will find me at the 
Langham, under the name of the Count 
Von Kramm." 

" Then I shall drop you a line to let you 
know how we progress." 

" Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety." 

" The*:, as to money ? " 

" You have carte blanche" 

" Absolutely ? " 

" I tell you that I would give one of the 
provinces of my kingdom to have that 

" And for present expenses ? " 

The king took a heavy chamois leather 
bag from under his cloak, and laid it on the 

"There are three hundred pounds in 
gold, and seven hundred in notes," he said. 

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet 
of his note-book f and handed it to him- 


of : 




" And mademoiselle's address ? " he 

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine-avenue, 
St. John's Wood." 

Holmes took a note of it. '' One other 
question," said he, " Was the photograph 
a cabinet ? " 

" It was." 

" Then, good ni^ht, your Majesty, and I 
trust that we shall soon have some good 
news for you, And good night, Watson,'' 
he added, as the 
wheels of the Royal 
brougham rolled 
down the street, "If 
you wilt he good 
enough to call to- 
morrow afternoon, at 
three o'clock, I should 
like to chat this little 
matter over with 


At three o'clock pre- 
cisely I was at Baker- 
street, but Holmes 
had not yet returned. 
The landlady in* 
formed me that he 
had left the house 
shortly after eight 
o'clock in the morn- 
ing. I sat down be- 
side the fire, however, 
with the intention of 
awaiting him, how- 
ever long he might 
be. I was already 
deeply interested in 
his inquiry, for, 
though it was sur- 
rounded by none of 
the grim and hi range 

features which were w — * ~ 

associated with the « A drunkes 

two crimes which I 

have already recorded, still, the nature of 
the case and the exalted station of his 
client gave it a character of its own. In- 
deed, apart from the nature of the investi- 
gation which ray friend had on hand, 
there was something in his masterly grasp 
of a situation, and his keen, incisive rea- 
soning, which made it a pleasure to me to 
study his system of work, and to follow 
the quick, subtle methods by which he 
disentangled the most inextricable mys- 
teries. So accustomed was I to his in- 

variable success that the very possibility of 
his failing had ceased to enter into my 

It was close upon four before the door 
opened, and ;i drunken-looking groom, ill- 
kempt and side- whiskered, with an inflamed 
face and disreputable clothes, walked into 
the room. Accustomed as I was to my 
friend's amazing powers in the use of dis- 
guises, I had to look three times before I 
was certain that it was indeed he. With a 
nod he vanished into 
the bedroom, whence 
he emerged in five 
mi nittes tweed-suited 
and respectable, as of 
old. Putting his 
hands into his 
pockets, he stretched 
out his legs in front 
of the fi re, and 
laughed heartily for 
some minutes. 

" Well, really 1 " he 
cried, and then he 
choked ; and laughed 
again until he was 
obliged to lie back, 
limp and helpless, in 
the chair. 
"What is it I" 
"It's quite too 
funny. I am sure 
you could never guess 
how I employed mv 
morning, or what I 
ended by doing," 

" I can't imagti:'-. 
I suppose that you 
have been watching 
the habits, and per- 
haps the house, of 
Miss Irene Adler." 

"Quite so, but the 
sequel was rather un- 
looking groom," usual. I will tell you, 

however. I left the 
house a little after eight o'clock this 
morning, in the character of a groom out 
of work. There is a wonderful sympathy 
and freemasonry among horsey men. Be 
one of them, and you will know all that 
there is to know. I soon found Briony 
Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden 
at the back, but built out in front right up 
to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to 
the door. Large sitting-room on the right 
side, well furnished, with long windows 
almost to the floor, and thise preposterous 



English window fasteners which a child 
could open. Behind there was nothing 
remarkable, save that the passage window 
could be reached from the top of the coach- 
house. I walked round it and examined it 
closely from every point of view, but with- 
out noting anything else of interest. 

" I then lounged down the street, and 
found, as I expected, that there was a mews 
in a lane which runs down by one wall of 
the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in 
rubbing down their horses, and I received 
in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and- 
half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much 
information as I could desire about Miss 
Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other 
people in the neighbourhood in whom I 
was not in the least interested, but whose 
biographies I was compelled to listen to." 

" And what of Irene Adler ? " I asked. 

" Oh, she has turned all the men's heads 
down in that part. She is the daintiest 
thing under a bonnet on this planet. So 
say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She 
lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out 
at five every day, and returns at seven 
sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at 
other times, except when she sings". Has 
only one male visitor, but a good deal of 
him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing; 
never calls less than once a day, and often 
twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the 
Inner Temple. See the advantages of a 
cabman as a confidant They had driven 
him home a dozen times from Serpentine- 
mews, and knew all about him. When I 
had listened to all that they had to tell, I 
began to walk up and down near Briony 
Lodge once more, and to think over my 
plan of campaign. 

" This Godfrey Norton was evidently an 
important factor in the matter. He was a 
lawyer. That sounded ominous. What 
was the relation between them, and what 
the object of his repeated visits ? ' Was she 
his client, his friend, or his mistress ? If 
the former, she had probably 'transferred 
the photograph to his keeping. If the 
latter, it was less likely. On the issue of 
this question depended whether I should 
continue my work at Briony Lodge, or 
turn my attention to the gentleman's 
chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate 
point, and it widened the field of my 
inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these 
details, but I have to let you see my little 
difficulties, if you are to understaiid the 

" I am following you closely," I answered. 

" I was still balancing the matter in my 
mind, when a hansom cab drove up to 
Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. 
He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, 
aquiline, and moustached — evidently the 
man of whom I had heard. He appeared 
to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cab- 
man to wait, and brushed past the maid 
who opened the door with the air of a man 
who was thoroughly at home. 

" He was in the house about half an 
hour, and I could catch glimpses of him, in 
the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up 
and down, talking excitedly and waving 
his arms. Of her I could see nothing. 
Presently he emerged, looking even more 
flurried than before. As he stepped up to 
the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his 
pocket and looked at it earnestly. " Drive 
like the devil,' he shouted, ' first to Gross 
& Hankey's in Regent- street, and then to 
the church of St. Monica in the Edgware- 
road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty 
minutes ! ' 

" Away they went, and I was just won- 
dering whether I should not do well to 
follow them, when up the lane came a neat 
little landau, the coachman with his coat 
only half buttoned, and his tie under his 
ear, while all the tags of his harness were 
sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled 
up before she shot out of the hall door and 
into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at 
the moment, but she was a lovely woman, 
with a face that a man might die for. 

" ' The Church of St. Monica, John,' she 
cried, ' and half a sovereign if you reach it 
in twenty minutes.' 

" This was quite too good to lose, Watson. 
I was just balancing whether I should run 
for it, or whether I should perch behind her 
landau, when a cab came through the street 
The driver looked twice at such a shabby 
fare ; but I jumped in before he could object. 
'The Church of St. Monica,'- said I, 'and 
half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty 
minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to 
twelve, and of coune it was clear enough 
what was in the wind. 

" My cabby drove fast. I don't think I 
ever drove faster, but the others were there 
before us. The cab and the landau with 
their steaming horses were in front of the 
door when I arrived. I paid the man, and 
hurried into the church. There was not a 
soul there save the two whom I had 
followed and a surpliced clergyman, who 
seemed to be expostulating with them. 
They were all three standing in a knot in 



front of the altar. 
J lounged up the 
side aisle like any 
other idler who 
has dropped in- 
to a church. 
Suddenly, to my 
surprise, the 
three at the altar 
faced round to 
me, and Godfrey 
Norton came 
running as hard 
as, he could to- 
wards me." 

"Thank God 1" 
hecried. "You'll 
do. Come! 
Come ! " 

"What then?" 
I asived. 

" Come man, 
come, only three 
minutes, or it 
won't be legal." 

I was half 
dragged up to 
the altar, and, 
before I knew 
where I was, 1 
found myself "i fwmu mv^li : 

mumbling re- 
sponses which were whispered in my ear, 
and vouching for things of which I knew 
nothing, and generally assisting in the 
secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to 
Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done 
in an instant, and there was the gentleman 
thanking me on the one side and the lady 
on the other, while the clergyman beamed 
on me in front. It was the most prepos- 
terous position in which I ever found 
myself in my life, and it was th 2 thought 
of it that started me laughing just now. 
It seems that there had been some infor- 
mality r.bout their licence, that the clergy- 
man absolutely refused to marry them 
without a witness of some sort, and that 
my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom 
from having to sally out into the streets in 
search of a best man. The bride gave me 
a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my 
watch chain in memory of the occasion." 

" This is a very unexpected turn of 
affairs," said I ; " and what then ? " 

" Well, I found my plans very seriously 
menaced. It looked as if the pair might 
take an im mediate departure, and so neces- 
sitate very prompt and energetic measures 

on my part. At the church door, 
however, they separated, he driving 
back to the Temple, and she to her 
own house, ' I 
shall drive out 
in the Park at 
five as usual, 1 she 
said as she left 
him. I heard no 
more. They 
drove away in 
different direc- 
tions, and I went 
off to make my 
own arrange- 

" Which are?" 
" Some cold 
beef and a glass 
of beer," he an- 
swered, ringing 
the bell. "I have- 
been too busy to 
think of food, 
and I am likely 
to be busier still 
this evening. By 
the way, Doctor, 
I shall want your 

" I shall be de- 

11 You don't mind breaking the law ? " 
" Not in the least." 
" Nor running a chance of arrest ? " 
" Not in a good cause." 
" Oh, the cause is excellent ! " 
" Then I am your man." 
" I was sure that I might rely on you." 
" But what is it you wish ? " 
" When Mrs. Turner has brought in the 
tray I will make it clear to you. Now," he 
said, as he turned hungrily on the simple 
fare that our landlady had provided, I 
must discuss it while I eat, for I have not 
much time. It is nearly five now. In two 
hours we must be on the scene of action. 
Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns 
from her dfive at seven. We must be at 
Briony Lodge to meet her." 
" And what then ? " 

"You must leave that to me. I have 
already arranged what is to occur. There 
is only one point on which I must insist. 
You must riot interfere, come what mav. 
You understand ? " 
" I am to be neutral ? " 
" Tu do nothing whatever. There will 
probably be some small unpleasantness. 

L MM!. I ■:., KtsP'-V ;-!;.:.. 




Do not join in it. It will end in my being 
conveyed into the house. Four or five 
minutes afterwards the sitting-room window 
will open. You are to station yourself close 
to that open window," 

" Yes.'' 

"You are to watch me, lor I will be 
visible to you." 

" Yes." 

" And when I raise my hand— so— you 
will throw into the room what I give you 
to throw, and will, at the same time, raise 
the cry of fire. You quite follow me ? '' 


"It is nothing very for- 
midable,"' he said, taking a 
long cigar-shaped roll from 
his pocket. "It is an ordi- 
nary plumber's smoke rocket, 
fitted with a cap at either end 
to make it self-lighting. Your 
task is confined to that. When 
you raise your cry of fire, it 
will be taken up by quite a 
number of people. You may 
then walk to the end of the 
street, and I will rejoin yon 
in ten minutes. I hope that 
I have made myself 
clear ? " 

"I am to remain 
neutral, to get near 
the window, to watch 
you, and, at the sig- 
nal, to throw in this 
object, then to raise 
the cry of fire, and 
to wait you at the 
corner of the street." f 

" Precisely." 

"Then you may V 
entirely rely on me." 

" That is excellent. 
I think perhaps it is ,, 

almost time that I 
prepared for the new r$h I have to play.*' 

He disappeared into his bedroom, and re- 
turned in a few minutes in the character 
of an amiable and simple-minded Noncon- 
formist clergyman. His broad black hat, his 
baggy trousers, his whitetie, his sympathetic 
smile-, and general look of peering and 
benevolent curiosity were such as Mr, John 
Hare alone could have equalled. It was 
not merely that Holmes changed his cos- 
tume. His expression, his manner, his 
very soul seemed to vary with every fresh 
part that he assumed. The stage lost a 
fine actor, oven as science lost an acute 

reasouer, when he became a specialist in 
crime. * 

It was a quarter past six when we left 
Baker-street, and it still wanted ten minutes 
to the hour when we found ourselves in 
Serpentine-avenue. It was already dusk, 
and the lamps were just being lighted as 
we paced up and down in front of Briony 
Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occu- 
pant. The house was just such as I had 
pictured it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct 
description, but the locality appeared to be 
[ess private than I expected. On the con- 
trary, for a small street in a 
quiet neighbourhood, it was 
remarkably animated, There 
was a group of shabbily-di esstd 
men smoking and laughing in 
a corner, a scissors grinder with 
his wheel, two guardsmen who 
were flirting with a nurse-girl, 
and -several Well-dressed young 
men who were lounging up 
and dawn with cigars in their 

"You see," re- 
marked Holmes, as 
we paced to and fro 
in front of the house, 
"this marriage rather 
simplifies matters. 
The photograph be- 
comes a double-edged 
weapon now. The 
chances are that she 
would bs as averse to 
its being seen by Mr. 
Godfrey Norton, as 
our client is to its 
coming to the eyes of 
his Princess. Now the 
question is — Where 
are we to find the 
photograph ? " 

" Where, indeed ? '* 
"It is most unlikely that she cr.rries it 
abuut with her. It is cabinet size. Too 
large for easy concealment about a woman's 
dress. She knows that the King is capable 
of having her waylaid and searched. Two 
attempts of the sort have already been made. 
We may take it then that she does not carry 
it about with her." 
" Where, then ? " 

" Her banker or her lawyer. There is 
that double possibility. But I am inclined 
to think neither. Women are naturally 
secretive, and they like to do their own 
secreting. Why should she hand it over 




(o anyone else ? She could trust her own 
guardianship, but she could not tell what 
indirect or political influence might be 
brought to bear upon a business man. 
Besides, remember that she had resolved to 
use it within a few days. It must be where 
she can lay her hands upon it. It must be 
in her own house." 

" But it has twice been burgled." 

" Pshaw ! They did not know how to 

" But how will you look ? " 

" I will not look." 

M What then ?" 

" I will get her to show me." 

"" But she will refuse." 

" She will not he able to. But 1 hear 
the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. 
Now carry oitt my order* to the letter." 

As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights 
of a carriage came round the curve of the 
avenue. It was a smart little landau which 
rattled up to the door of Briuny Lodge. 
As it pulled up one of tile loafing men at 

Digitized by* 

the corner dashed forward to open the door 
in the hope of earning a copper, but was 
elbowed away by another loafer who had 
rushed up with the same intention. A 
fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased 
by the two guardsmen, who took sides with 
one of the loungers, and by the scissors 
grinder, who was equally hot upon the 
other side. A blow was struck, and in an 
instant the lady, who had stepped from her 
carriage, was the centre of a little knot of 
flushed and struggling men who struck 
savagely at each other with their fists and 
sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to 
protect the lady ; butjust as he reached her, 
he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, 
with the blood running freely down his 
face. At his fall the guardsmen took 
to their heels in one direction and the 
loungers in the other, while a number of 
better dressed people who Itad watched the 
scuffle without taking part in it, crowded 
in to help the lady and to attend to the in- 
jured man. Irene Adlur, as I will still call 
her, had hurried up 
the steps; but she 
stood at the top 
with her superb 
figure outlined 
against the lights 
of the hall, looking 
back into the street. 
"Is the poor 
gentleman much 
hurt ? " she asked. ■ 
"He is dead, 1 ' 
cried several voices. 
" No, no, there's 
life in him," shouted 
another. " But he'll 
be gone before you 
can get him to hos- 

11 He's a brave fel- 
low," said a woman. 
" They would have 
had the lady's purse 
and watch if it 
hadn't been for him. 
They were a gang, 
and a rough one 
too. Ah, he's 
breathing now." 

"He can't lie in 
the street. May 
we bring him in, 
iTi.ii in ? " 

"Surely. Brin^ 
Driginal fro nflim into the sitting- 



room. There is a comfortable sofa. This 
way, please ! " 

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into 
Briony Lodge, and laid out in the prin- 
cipal room, while I still observed the pro- 
ceedings from my post by the window. 
The lamps had been lit, but the blinds 
had not been drawn, so that I could 
see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I 
do not know whether he was seized with 
compunction at that moment for the part 
he was playing, but I know that I never 
felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my 
life than when I saw the beautiful creature 
against whom I was conspiring, or the grace 
and kindliness with which she waited upon 
the injured man. And yet it would be the 
blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back 
now from the part which he had entrusted 
to me. I hardened my heart, and took the 
smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After 
all, I thought, we are not injuring her. 
We are but preventing her from injuring 

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and 
I saw him motion like a man who is in need 
of air. A maid rushed across and threw 
open the window. At the same instant I 
saw him raise his hand, and at the signal I 
tossed my rocket into the room with a cry 
of " Fire." The word was no sooner out 
of my mouth than the whole crowd of spec- 
tators, well dressed and ill — gentlemen, 
ostlers, and servant maids — joined in a 
general shriek of "Fire." Thick clouds 
of smoke curled through the room, and 
out at the open window. I caught a 
glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment 
later the voice of Holmes from within, 
assuring them that it was a false alarm. 
Slipping through the shouting crowd I 
made my way to the corner of the street, 
and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my 
friend's arm in mine, and to get away 
from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly 
and in silence for some few minutes, until 
we Had turned down one of the quiet streets 
which lead towards the Edgware-road. 

" You did it very nicely, Doctor," he re- 
marked. " Nothing could have been better. 
It is all right-." 

" You hav# the photograph ! " 

" I know where it is." 

" And hotf did you find out ? " 

" She showed me, as I told you that she 
would " 

" I am still, in the dark." 

" 1 do not wish to make a mystery," said 
he laughing. " The matter was perfectly 

simple. You, of course, saw that everyone 
in the street was an accomplice. They 
were all engaged for the evening." 

" I guessed as much." 

" Then, when the row broke out, I had a 
little moist red paint in the palm of my 
hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped 
my hand to my face, and became a piteous 
spectacle. It is an old trick." 

" That also I could fathom." 

" Then they carried me in. She was 
bound to have me in. What else could she 
do ? And into her sitting-room, which was 
the very room which I suspected. It lay 
between that and her bedroom, and I was 
determined to see which. They laid me on 
a couch, I motioned for air, they were com- 
pelled to open the window, and you had 
your chance." 

" How did that help you ? " 

" It was all-important. When a woman 
thinks that her house is on fire, her 
instinct is at once to rush to the thing 
which she values most. It is a perfectly 
overpowering impulse, and I have more 
than once taken advantage of it. In the 
case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal 
it was of use to me, and also in the Arns- 
worth Castle business. A married woman 
grabs at her baby — an unmarried one 
reaches for her jewel box. Now it was 
clear to me that our lady of to-day had 
nothing in the house more precious to her 
than what we are in quest of. She would 
rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was 
admirably done. The smoke and shouting 
were enough to shake nerves of steel. She 
responded beautifully. The photograph is in 
a recess behind a sliding panel just above the 
right bell pull. She was there in an instant, 
and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew 
it out. When I cried out that it was a false 
alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, 
rushed from the room, and I have not seen 
her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, 
escaped from the house. I hesitated whether 
to attempt to secure the photograph at once ; 
but the coachman had come in, and, as he 
was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer 
to wait. A little over-precipitance may 
ruin all." 

" And now ? " I asked. * 

" Our quest is practically finished. I 
shall call with the King to-morrow, and 
with you, if you care to come with us. We 
will be shown into the sitting-room to wait 
for the lady, but it is probable that when 
she comes she may find neithes-us nor the 
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to 



Hi- Majesty to regain it with his own 

''And when will you call ? " 

" At eight in the morning. She will nut 
be up, so that we shall have a clear field. 
Besides, we must be prompt, for this 
marriage may mean a complete change in 
her life and habits. I must wire to the 
King without delay." 

We had reached Baker-street, and had 
stopped at the door. He was searching his 
pockets for the key, when someone passing 
said : — 

" Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes." 

There were several people un the pave- 
inent at the time, but the greeting appeared 
to come from a 
slim youth in an 
ulster" who had 
hurried by. 

''I've heard 
that voice be- 
fore," said 
Holmes, staring 
down the dimly 
lit street. "Now, 
I wonder who the 
deuce that could 
have been." 

I slept at Baker- 
street that night, 
and w T e were en- 
gaged upon our 
toast and coffe . 
in the morning; 
when the King of 
Bohemia rushed 
into the room. 

" You have 
really got it ! " he 
cried, grasping 
Sherlock Holmes 
by either shoul- 
der, and looking 
eagerly into his 

" Not yet.". 

"But you have 
hopes ? " 

" I have hopes." 

" Then, come. I am all impatience to be 

" We must have a cab." 

'■ No, my brougham is waiting. 1 ' 

" Then that will simplify matters." Wc 
descended, and started uff once more fur 
Briony Lodge. 

"Irene Adler is married," remarked 

"Married! When?" 
" Yesterday." 
" But to whom ? " 

" To an English lawyer named Norton," 
" But she could not love him ?" 
" I am in hopes that she does." 
" And why in hopes ? " 
"Because it would spare your Majesty all 
fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves 
her husband, she does not love your 
Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, 
there is no reason why she should interfere 
with your Majesty's plan." 

" It is true. And yet — ! Well ! 1 wish 
she had been of 
my own station ! 
What a queen 
she would have 
made ! " He re- 
lapsed into a 
moody silence 
which was not 
broken, until we 
drew up in Ser- 

The door of 
Briony Lodge 
was open, and an 
elderly woman 
stood upon the 
steps. She 
watched us with 
a sardonic eye as 
we stepped from 
the brougham. 

11 Mr. Sherlock 
Holme*, I be- 
lieve ? M said she. 
" I a m M r . 
Holmes,'' an 
swered my com- 
panion, looking 
at her with a 
questioning and 
rather startled 

" Indeed I My 

mistress told me 

that you were 

, likely to call. She 

left this morning with her husband, by the 

5.15 train from Charing - cross, for the 

Continent.' 1 

"What! if Sherlock Holmes staggered 
back, white with chagrin and surprise. 
" Do you mean that she lias left England ? " 
"Never to return. " 




asked the King, 

11 And the papers ? 
hoarsely. M All is lost." 

" We shall see." He pushed past the 
servant, and rushed into the drawing-room, 
followed by the King and myself. The 
furniture was scattered about in every 
direction, with dismantled shelves, and open 
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly Tan- 
sacked them before her flight. Holmes 
rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small 
sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, 
pulled out a photograph and a letter. The 
photograph was of Irene Adler herself in 
evening dress, the letter was superscribed to 
"Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till 
called for." My friend tore it open, and we 
all three read it together. It was dated at 
midnight of the preceding night, and ran 
in this way ;— - 

"My Dear Mk, Sherlock Holmes* — 
You really did it very well. You took me 
ill completely. Until after the alarm of 
fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when 
1 found howl had betrayed myself, I began 
to think. I had been warned against you 
months ago. I had been told that, if the 

King employed an agent, it 

would certainly be you. And 

your address had been given 

me. Yet, with all this, you 

made me reveal what you 

wanted to know. Even after 

I became suspicious, I found 

it hard to think evil of such 

a dear, kind old clergyman. 

But, you know, I have been 

trained as an actress myself, 

Male costume is nothing new 

to me. I often take advan- 
tage of the freedom which it 

gives. I sent John, the coach- 
man, to watch you, ran up- 
stairs, got into my walking 

clothes, as I call them, and 

came down just as you de- 

" Well, I followed you to 

your door, and so made sure 

that I was really an objecL 

of interest to the celebrated 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then 

I, rather imprudently, wished 

you good night, and started 

for the Temple to see my 


b We both thought the best 

resource was flight, when pur- 
sued by so formidable an 

antagonist ; so you will find 

the nest empty when you call to-morrow*. 
As to the photograph, your client may 
rest in peace. I love and am loved by 
a better man than he. The King may 
do what he will without hindrance from 
one whom he has cruelly wronged. I 
keep it only to safeguard myself, and to 
preserve a weapon which will always 
secure me from any steps which he might 
take in the future. I leave a photo- 
graph which he might care lo possess ; 
and I remain, tVar Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 
very truly yours, 

" Irene Norton, nee Adler." 

" What a woman—oh, what a woman ! " 
cried the King of Bohemia, when we had 
all three read this epistle. " Did I not tell 
vou how quick and resolute she was ? 
Would she not have made an admirable 
queen ? Is it nut a pity that she was not 
on my level ? " 

" From what I have seen vi the lady, she 
seems, indeed, to be on a very different 
level to your Majesty," said Holmes, coldly. 
" I am sorry that I have not been able to 


Original from 


bring your Majesty's business to a more 
successful conclusion." 

" On the contrary, my dear sir," cried 
the King. " Nothing could be more suc- 
cessful. I know that her word is inviolate. 
The photograph is now as safe as if it were 
in the fire." 

"I am glad to hear your Majesty 
say so." 

" I am immensely indebted to you. Pray 
tell me in what way I can reward you. 

This ring ." He slipped an emerald 

snake ring from his finger, and held it out 
upon the palm of his hand. 

" Your Majesty has something which I 
should value even more highly," said 

" You have but to name it." 

" This photograph \ " 

The King stared at him in amazement. 

" Irene's photograph ! " he cried. " Cer- 
tainly, if you wish it." 

" I thank your Majesty. Then there is 
no more to be done in the matter. I have 
the honour to wish you a very good morn- 
ing." He bowed, and, turning away with- 
out observing the hand which the King had 
stretched out to him, he set off in my 
company for his chambers. 

And that was how a great scandal 
threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohe- 
mia, and how the best plans of Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's 
wit He used to make merry over the 
cleverness of women, but I have not heard 
him do it of late. And when he speaks of 
Irene Adler, or when he refers to her 
photograph, it is always under the honour- 
able title of the woman. 

Original from 

The Bundle of Letters. 

From thk Hungarian of Moritz Jokai. 

NE of the celebrated medical 
practitioners of Pcsth, Dr. 

K , was one morning, at an 

early hour, obliged to receive 
a very pressing visitor. The 
man, who was waiting in the 
ante- room, sent in word by the footman 
that all delay would be dangerous to him ; 
he had, therefore, to be received im- 

The doctor hastily wrapped a dressing- 
gown about him, and directed the patient 
to be admitted to him. 

He found himself in the presence of a 
man who was a complete stranger to him, 
but who appeared to beli^g, to the best 
society, judging from his manners. On his 

M You are Dr. K ? " he asked in a 

low and feeble tone of voice. 
'• That is my name, sir.'' 
i( Living in "the country, I have not the 
honour of knowing you, except by reputa- 
tion. But I cannot ^ay that lam delighted 
to make your acquaintance, because my 
visit to you is not a very agreeable one." 

Seeing that the sufferer's legs were hardly 
able to sustain him, the doctor invited him 
to be seated. 

" I am fatigued. It is a week since 1 had 

any sleep. Something is the matter with 

my right hand ; I don't what it is — whether 

it is a carbuncle, or cancer. At first the 

pain was slight, but now it is a continuous 

horrible burning, increasing from day to 

day- I could bear it no longer, so 

threw myself into my carriage and 

came to you, to beg you to cut out the 

affected spot, for an hour more of this 

torture will drive me mad.'" 

The doctor tried to re- 
itssure him, by saying that 
he might be able to cure 
the pain with dissolvents 
and ointments, without re- 
Mtrting to the use of the 

M No, no, sir I " cried the 
patient ; " no plaisters or 
ointments can give me any 
relief. I must have the 
knife. I have come to you 
to cut out the place which 
causes me so much suffer- 

The doctor asked to see- 
the hand, which the patient 
held out to him, grinding 
his teeth, so insufferable 
appeared to be the pain he 
was enduring, and with all 
imaginable precaution he 
unwound the bandages in 
pale face could be dis- ■ 1 p»*' which it was enveloped, 

cerned traces of great « Above all, doctor, I beg 

physical and moral suf- « H1!CA1! , [1B1 " HISMltrHi!iDa . iSl[1[t ,, of you not to hesitate on 

ferings. He carried his account of anything you 

right hand in a sling, m ay see. My disorder is 

and, though he tried to restrain himself, he so strange, that you will be surprised ; but 
now and then could not prevent a stifled do not let that weigh with you. 1 ' 
*igh escaping from his lips. Doctor K reassured the stranger. As 





a doctor in practice he was used to see every- 
thing, and there was nothing that could 
surprise him. 

What he saw when the hand was freed 
from its bandages stupefied him neverthe- 
less. Nothing abnormal was to be seen in 
it — neither wound nor graze ; it was a hand 
like any other. Bewildered, he let it fall 
from his own. 

A cry of pain escaped from the stranger, 
who raised the afflicted member with his 
left hand, showing the doctor that he had 
not come with the intention of mystifying 
him, and that he was really suffering. 

" Where is the sensitive spot ? " 

u Here, sir," said the stranger, indicating 
on the back of his hand a point where two 
large veins crossed, his whole frame tremb- 
ling when the doctor lightly touched it 
with the tip of his finger. 

" It is here that the burning pain makes 
itself felt ? " 

" Abominably I n 

" Do you feel the pressure when I place 
my finger on it ? " 

The man made no reply, but his eyes 
filled with tears, so acute was his suffering. 

" It is surprising ! I can see nothing at 
that place," 

" Nor can I ; yet what I feel there is so 
terrible that at times 1 am almost driven to 
dash my head against the wall." 

The doctor examined the spot with a 
magnifying-glass, then shook "his head. 

'* The skin is full of life ; the blood vv ithin 
it circulates regularly ; then is neither in- 
flammation nor cancer under it ; it is as 
healthy at that spot as elsewhere." 

"Yet I think it is a little redder there."' 

» Where ? " 

The stranger took a pencil from his 
pocket book and traced on his hand a ring 
about tjje size of a sixpenny-piece, and said : 

" It is there." 

The doctor looked in his face ; he was 
beginning to believe that his patient's mind 
was unhinged. 

" Remain here," he said, "and in a few 
days I'll cure you." 

" I cannot wait. Don't think that 1 am 
a madman, & maniac ; it is not in that way 
that you would cure me. The httle chcle 
which I have marked with my pencil causes 
me internal tortures, and I have come to 
you to cut it away." 

"That I cannot do," said the doctor. 

H Why ? * 

"Because your hand exhibits no patho- 
logical disorder, I see at the spot you have 

indicated nothing more amiss than on my 
own hand," 

'* You really seem to think that I have 
gone out of my senses, or that I have come 
here to mock you," said the strangeT, taking 
from his pocket-book a bank-note for a 
thousand florins, and laying it on the table. 
" Now, sir, you see that I am not playing 
off any childish jest, and that the service 1 
seek of you is as urgent as it is important. 
I beg you to remove this part of my hand," 

u I repeat, sir, that for all the treasures in 
the world you cannot make ine Tegard as 
unsound a member that is perfectly sound, 
and still less induce me to cut it with my 

"And why not?" 

" Because such an act would cast a doubt 
upon my medical knowledge and com- 
promise my reputation, Everybody would 
say that you were mad ; that I was dis- 
honest in taking advantage of your condition, 
or ignorant in not perceiving it." 

M Very well. I will only ask a small 
service of you, then. I am myself capable 
of making the incision. I shall do it rather 
clumsily with my left hand ; but that does 
not matter. Be good enough only to bind 
up the wound after the operation." 




It was with astonishment that the doctor 
saw that this strange man was speaking 
seriously. He stripped off his coat, turned 
up the wristbands of his shirt, and took a 
history in hie left hand. 

A second later, and the steel had made a 
deep incision in the skin. 

'' Stay ! " cried the doctor, who feared 
that his patient might, through his awkward- 
ness, sever some important organ. " Since 
you have determined on the operation, let 
me perform it." 

He took the history, and placing in his left 
hand the right hand of the patient, begged 
him to turn away his face, the sight of blood 
being insupportable to many persons. 

" Quite needless. On the contrary, it is I 
who must direct you where to cut." 

In fact he watched the operation to the 
end with the greatest coolness, indicating 
the limits of the incisions. The open hand 
did not even quiver in that of the doctor, 
an J when the circular piece was removed, 
he sighed profoundly, like a man experienc- 
ing an enormous relief. 

" Nothing burns you now ? " 

" All has ceased," said the stranger, smil- 
ing. "The pain has completely disappeared, 
as if it had been carried away with the part 
excised. The little discomfort which the 
flowing of blood causes me, compared with 
the other pain, is like a fresh breeze after a 
blast *rom the infernal regions. It does me 
a real good to see my blood pouring forth : 
let it flow, it does me extreme good." 

The stranger watched with an expression 
of delight the blood pouring from the 
wound, and the doctor was obliged to insist 
on binding up the hand. 

During the bandaging the aspect of his 
face completely changed. t no longer bore 
a dolorous expression, but a look full of 
good humour was turned upon the doctor. 
No more contraction of the features, no 
more despair. A taste for life had returned ; 
the brow was once again calmed ; the colour 
found its way back to the cheeks. The 
entire man exhibited a complete transforma- 

As soon as his hand was laid in the sling 
he warmly wrung the doctor's hand with 
the one that remained free, and said 
cordially : 

" Accept my sincere thanks. You have 
positively cured me. The trifling remu- 
neration I offer you is not at all proportioned 
to the service you have rendered me : for 
the rest of my life I shall search for the 
means of repaying my debt to you." 

The doctor would not listen to anything 
of the kind, and refused to accept the 
thousand florins placed on the table. On 
his side the stranger refused to take them 
back, and, observing that the doctor was 
losing his temper, begged him to make a 
present of the money to some hospital, and 
took his departure. 

K remained for several days at his 

town house until the wound in his patient's 
hand should be cicatrised, which it did 
without the least accident. During this 
time the doctor was able to satisfy himself 
that he had to do with a man of extensive 
knowledge, reflective, and having very posi- 
tive opinions in regard to the affairs of life. 
Besides being rich, he occupied an impor- 
tant official position. Since the taking 
away of his invisible pain, no trace of moral 
or physical malady was discoverable in him. 

The cure completed, the man returned 
tranquilly to his residence in the country. 

About three weeks had passed when, one 
morning, at an hour as unduly as before, 
the servant again announced the strange 

The stranger, whom K hastened to 

receive, entered the room with his right 
hand in a sling, his features convulsed and 
hardly recognisable from suffering. With- 
out waiting to be invited to sit down, he 
sank into a chair, and, being unable to 
master the torture he was enduring, 
groaned, and without uttering a word, held 
out his hand to the doctor. 

" What has happened ? " asked K , 


" We have not cut deep enough," replied 
the stranger, sadly, and in a fainting voice. 
" It burns me more cruelly than before. I 
am worn out by it ; my arm is stiffened by 
it. I did not wish to trouble you a second 
timj, and have borne it, hoping that by 
degrees the invisible inflammation would 
either mount to my head or descend to my 
heart, and put an end to my miserable 
existence ; but it has not done so. The 
pain never goes beyond the spot, but it is 
indescribable ! Look at my face, and you 
will be able to imagine what it must be ! " 

The colour of the man's skin was that of 
wax, and a cold perspiration beaded his fore- 
head. The doctor unbound the bandaged 
hand. The point operated on was well 
healed ; a new skin had formed, and no- 
thing extraordinary was to be seen. The 
sufferer's pulse beat quickly, without fever- 
ishness, while yet he trembled in every 




" This really smacks of the marvellous ! " 
exclaimed the doctor, more and more 
astonished. " I have never before seen 
such a case." 

" It is a prodigy, a horrible prodigy, 
doctor. Do not try to find a cause for it, 
but deliver me from this torment. Take 
your knife and cut deeper and wider : only 
that can relieve me," 

The doctor was obliged to give in to the 
prayers of his patient. He performed the 
operation once again, cutting into the flesh 
more deeply ; and, once more, he saw in 
the sufferer's face the expression of astonish- 
ing relief, the curiosity at seeing the blood 
flow from the wound, which he had observed 
on the first occasion. 

When the hand was dressed, the deadly 
pallor passed from the face, the colour re- 
turned to the cheeks ; but the patient no 
more smiled. This time he thanked the 
doctor sadly. 

" I thank you, doc- 
tor," he said. "The 
pain has once more 
left me. In a few days 
the wound will heal. 
Do not be astonished, 
however, to see mc 
return before a month 
has passed." 

"Oh ! my dear sir, 
drive this idea from 
your mind." 

The doctor men- 
tioned this strange case 
to several of his col- 
leagues, who each held 
a different opinion in 
regard to it, without 
any of them being able 
to furnish a plausible 
explanation of its 

As the end of the 
month approached, 

K awaited with 

anxiety the reappear- 
ance of this enigmatic 
personage. But the 
month passed and he 
did not reappear. 

Several weeks more 
went by. At length 
the doctor received a 
letter from the suf- 
ferer's residence. It 
was very closely writ- 
ten, and by the signa- 

ture he saw that it had been penned by 
his patient's own hand ; from which ht 
concluded that the pain had not returned, 
for otherwise it would have been very 
difficult for him to have held a pen. 

These are the contents of the letter : — 

" Dear doctor, I cannot leave either you 
or medical science in doubt in regard to the 
mystery of the strange malady which will 
shortly carry me to the grave. 

li I will here tell you the origin of this 
terrible malady. For the past week it has 
returned the third time, and I will no longer 
struggle with it. At this moment I am 
only able to write by placing upon the 
sensitive spot a piece of burning tinder in 
the form of a poultice. While the tinder 
is burning I do not feel the other pain ; and 
what distress it causes me is a mere trifle by 

" Six months ago I was still a happy man. 



I lived on my income without a care. I u That question haunted my mind. 

was on good terms with everybody, and en- What could she be hiding there ? I had 
joyed all that is of" interest to "a man of become mad. I no longer believed either 

rive-and-thirty. I had married a year 
before — married for love— a young lady, 
handsome, with a cultivated mind, and a 
heart as good as any heart could be, who 
had been a governess in the house of a 
countess, a neighbour of mine. She was 
fortuneless, and attached herself to me, not 
only from gratitude, but still more from 
real childish affection. Six months passed, 

during which every day appeared to be a few hours. 

in the innocence of her face or the purity 
of her locks, nor in her caresses, nor in her 
kisses. What if all that were hypocrisy ? 

" One morning the countess came anew 
to invite her to her house, and, after much 
pressing, succeeded in inducing her to go 
and spend the day with her. Our estates 
were some leagues from each other, and I 
promised to join my wife in the course of 

happier than the one which had gone 
before. If, at times, I was obliged to go to 
Pesth and quit my own land for a day, my 
wife had not a moment's rest. She would 
come two leagues on the way to meet me. 
If I was detained late, she passed a sleepless 
night waiting lor me ; and if by prayers I 
succeeded in inducing her tu go and visit 
her former mistress, who had not ceased to 
be extremely fond of her, no power could 
keep her away from her home for more 
than half a day ; and by her regrets fur my 
absence, she invariably spoiled the good- 
humour of others. -Her tenderness for me 
went so far as f 
to make her 
renounce danc- 
ing, so as not to 
be obliged to 
give her hand 
to strangers, and 
nothing more 
displeased her 
than gallantries 
addressed toher. 
In a word, I had 
for my wife an 
innocent girl, 
who thought of 
nothing but me, 
and who con- 
fessed to me her 
dreams as enor- 
mous crimes, if 
they were not 
of me. 

M I know not 
what demon one 

day whispered in my ear : Suppose that all 
this were dissimulation ? Men are mad 
enough to seek torments in the midst of 
their greatest happiness. 

" My wife had a work-table, the drawer of 
which she carefully locked I had noticed 
this several times. She never forgot the 
kev, and never left the drawer open. 

" As soon as the carriage had quitted the 
courtyard, I collected all the keys in the 
house and tried them on the lock of the 
little drawer. One of them opened it. I 
felt like a man committing his first crime. 
I was a thief about to surprise the secrets of 
my. poor wife, My hands trembled as I 
carefully pulled out the drawer, and, one by 
one, turned over the objects within it, so 
that no derangement of them might betray 
the fact of a strange hand having disturbed 
them. My bosom was oppressed ; I was 
almost stifled. Suddenly — under some lace 
—I put my hand upon a packet of letters. 
It was as if a 
flash of light- 
n i 11 g had 
passed through 
me from tny 
head to mv 
heart. Oh'! 
they were the 
sort of letters 
one recognises 
at a glance — 
love letters ! 

"The packet 
was tied with 
a rose-coloured 
ribbon, edged 
with silver, 

"As I touched 
thought came 
into my mind : 
Is it conceiv- 
able ? — is this 
the work of an 
honest man ? To steal the secrets of his 
wife! — secrets belonging to the time when 
she was a young girl. Have I any right 
to exact from her a reckoning for thoughts 
she may have had before she belonged to 
me ? Have I any right to be jealous of a 
time when I was unknown to her ? Who 
could suspect her o; a fault ? Who ? I 



am guilty for having suspected her. The 
demon again whispered in my ears : ' But 
what if these letters date from a time when 
you already had a right to know all her 
thoughts, when you might already be 
jealous of her dreams, when mIk- was already 
yours? 1 I unfastened the ribbon. Nobody 
saw me. There was not even a mirror to 

what I felt ? Imagine the intoxication 
caused by a mortal poison. I read alt those 
letters — every one. Then I put them up 
again in a packet, retied them with the 
ribbon, and, replacing them under the lace, 
reloeked the drawer. 

" I knew that if she did not see me by 
noon she would return in the evening from 

make me blush for myself. I opened one 
letter, then another, and I read them to 
the end. 

" Oh, it was a terrible hour for me ! 

" What was there in these letters ? The 
vilest treason of which a man has ever been 
the victim. The writer of these letters was 
one of my intimate friends ! And the tone 
in which they were written !— what passion, 
what love, certain of being returned ! How 
he spoke of ' keeping the secret ! ' And all 
these letters dated at a time when I was 
jna.rried and so happy ! How can I tell you 

her visit to the countess— as she did. She 
descended from the aiieche hurriedly, to 
rush towards me as I stood awaiting her on 
the steps. She kissed me with excessive 
tenderness, and appeared extremely happy 
to be once again with me. I allowed 
nothing of what was passing within me to 
appear in my face. We conversed, we 
supped together, and each retired to our 
bed-rooms. I did not close an eye. Broad 
awake, I counted ail the hours. When the 
clock struck the first quarter after midnight, 
I rose and entered her room. The beautiful 



fair head was there pressed into the white 
pillows— as angels are painted in the midst 
of snowy clouds. What a frightful lie of 
nature's is vice under an aspect so inno- 
cent ! I was resolved, with the headlong 
wilfulness of a madman, haunted by a fixed 
idea. The poison had completely corroded 
my soul. 1 resolved to kill her as she lay. 

" I puss over the details of the crime. 
She died without offering the least resist- 
ance, as tranquilly as one goes to sleep. She 
was never irritated against me — even when 
I killed her. One single drop of blood fell 
on the back of my hand — you know where. 
I did not perceive it until the next day, 
when it was dry. 

u We buried her without anybody sus 
pecting the truth. I lived in solitude. 
Who could have controlled my actions ? 
She had neither parent nor guardian who 
could have addressed to me any questions 
on the subject, and 1 designedly put off 
sending the customary invitations to the 
funeral, so that my friends could not arrive 
in time. 

" On returning from the vault I felt not 
the least weight upon my conscience. I 
had been cruel, but she had deserved it. I 
would not hate her — I would forget her, I 
scarcely thought of her. Never did a man 
commit an assassination with 
less remorse than L 

"The countess, so often 
mentioned, was at the chateau 
when I returned there. My 
measures had been so well 
taken that she also had ar- 
rived too late for the inter- 
ment. On seeing me she 
appeared greatly agitated. 
'I error, sympathy, sorrow, or, 
I know not what, had put so 
much into her words that I 
could not understand what 
she was saying to console me. 

" Was I even listening to 
her ? Had J any need of 
consolation ? I was not sad. 
At last she took me familiarly 
by the hand, and, dropping 
her voice, said that she was 
obliged to confide a secret to 
me, and that she relied on 
my honour as a gentleman 
not to abuse it. She had 
given my wife a packet of 
letters to mind, not having 
been able to keep them in 
her own house ; and these 

letters she now requested me to return 
to her. While she was speaking, I several 
times felt a shudder run through my frame. 
With seeming coolness, however, I ques- 
tioned her as to the contents of the letters. 
At this interrogation the lady started, and 
replied angrily : — 

" ' Sir, your wife has been more generous 
than you ! When she took charge of my 
letters, she did not demand to know what 
they contained. She even gave me her 
promise that she would never set eyes on 
them, and I am convinced that she never 
read a line of any one of them. She had a 
noble heart, and would have been ashamed 
to forfeit the pledge she had given.' 

'* ' Very well,' I replied. ' How shall I 
recognise this packet ? 1 

" ' It was tied with a rose-coloured ribbon 
edged with silver,' 

" ' I will go and search for it. 1 

" I took my wife's keys, knowing perfectly 
well where I should find the packet ; but I 
pretended to find it. with much difficulty. 

'"Is this it?' I asked the countess, 
handing it to her. 

" ' Yes, yes— that is it ! See ! — the knot 
I myself made has never been touched. ' 

" I dared not raise my eyes to hers ; I 
feared kst she should read in them that I 




had untied the knot of that packet, and 
something more. 

"I took leave of her abruptly ; she sprang 
into her carriage and drove off. 

u The drop of blood had disappeared, the 
pain was not manifested by any external 
symptom ; and yet the spot marked by the 
drop burned me as if it had been bitten by 
a corrosive poison. This pain grows from 
hour to hour. I sleep sometimes, but I 
never cease to be conscious of my suffering. 
I do not complain to anybody : nobody, 
indeed, would believe my story. You have 
seen the violence of my torment, and you 
know how much the two operations have 
relieved me ; but concurrently with the 
healing of the wound, the pain returns. It 

has now attacked me for the third time, and 
I have no longer strength to resist it. In 
an hour I shall be dead. One thought con- 
soles me ; it is that she has avenged herself 
here below. She will perhaps forgive me 
above. I thank you for all you have done 
for me. May heaven reward you." 

A few days later one might have read 

in the newspapers that S , one of the 

richest landowners, had blown out his 
brains. Some attributed his suicide to 
sorrow caused by the death of his wife ; 
others, better informed, to an incurable 
wound. Those who best knew him said 
that he had been attacked by monomania, 
that his incurable wound existed only in 
his imagination. 

Original from 

The State of the Law Courts. 


flN many respects the Criminal 
Courts form the most inter- 
esting branch of the Judica- 
ture. Not only in their legal 
aspect, but also from their 
social bearing do they afford 
matter for reflection. Certain it is that so 
long as a large section of the community is 
permitted to exist under conditions of filth 
and depravity repugnant to civilisation, 
there will be plenty of work for the Crimi- 
nal Courts to do. Many of the children of 
the slums are bred to a life of crime from 
their earliest days ; they are taught to re- 
gard the law as their enemy , and law- 
abiding citizens as their legitimate prey. 
They have no conception of right and 
wrong, and in their 
eyes it is as praise- 
worthy an act to 
relieve an old 
gentleman of a 
watch as Eliza- 
beth's mariners 
thought it to 
plunder a Spanish 
galleon. Members 
of every profession, 
whether it be the 
law, the drama, art, 
music, or medicine, 
are often distin- 
guishable by their 
characteristic ap- 
pearance, and there 
is a - peculiar look 
about the London 
pickpocket which 

can hardly be mistaken. Mr, Montagu 
Williams gives the following description 
of a typical young criminal : — " He is 
small in stature — his growth being stunted 
by drink and other causes ; his hair is 
closely cropped (that being a matter of 
necessity), and there is a sharp, terrier-like 
look about his face." The truth of this 
picture will be recognised by all whose 
business has taken them frequently into the 
police and other Criminal Courts. 

Mr. Montagu Williams was once retained 
to defend a young ruffian of this class, who 
was charged with stealing a watch, The 
case was ao clearly against the prisoner that 

the learned counsel advised him to plead 
"Guilty." At this he was most indignant, 
and exclaimed, u Go on, I want you to do 
mycase. You'll win, I know you will. You've 
done so twice for me before." In the end 
he was acquitted. On hearing the verdict 
he began to dance in the dock, and after 
shouting " I told you so," to his counsel, 
and bowing to the judge, he retired, highly 
pleased with the result, 

So far as its procedure is concerned, our 
criminal law has hardly changed since the 
time of the Conquest, and in the opinion of 
many lawyers as well as laymen who have 
studied the matter, it is high time that some 
improvements were introduced. It is not 
our intention here to review the whole field 
of criminal ad- 
ministration. The 
work is too vast 
for the limits of 
this article. We 
may T however, 
briefly direct atten- 
- tion to those 
matters wherein 
we think that im- 
provement might 
be effected. 

The Criminal 
Courts in this 
country consist of 
the petty sessions, 
or, as they are 
generally termed 
in boroughs, the 
police courts, the 
Courts of Quarter 
Sessions, and the Assize Courts. 

In the large cities, such as Manchester, 
Newcastle, &c., there are stipendiary magis- 
trates who are appointed by the Home 
Secretary at the instance of the local town 
council, which provides their salaries. 

The metropolis is divided jV the purpose 
of police administration into various dis- 
tricts, every police-court having two 
magistrates, each of whom sits three days a 
week, the busiest days being Mondays and 

The work of the London police magis- 
trates is of an exceedingly diversified 
character, counting principally of charges 




of drunkenness, petty larceny, assaults on 
the police or on private individuals, and in- 
dictable offences in which they take the 
preliminary hearing, and, if satisfied that 
there is a primd facie case, commit the 
accused for trial. In addition 
to this, they have a vast 
number of duties recently im- 
posed upon them by the 
Legislature, such as School 
Board prosecutions and cases 
under the Sanitary, Tramway 
and Public Carriage, Building, 
and Employers and Work- 
men's Acts, as well as various 
other matters which it is un- 
necessary to detail. Alto- 
gether the work is of a 
singularly repulsive character, 
and it is for this reason, per- 
haps, that many of the magis- 
trates pride themselves on getting through 
the greatest possible number of cases in the 
shortest time. But this system of adminis- 
tering justice at high pressure is not entirely 
satisfactory. Most of the magistrates are 


One of the gravest defects 
in the administration of justice 
by police magistrates results 
from the almost implicit re- 
liance that they place upon 
the uncorroborated testimony 
of a single police-constable. 
Wc shall probably not be 
accused of exaggeration when 
we assert that the police are, as 
a rule, hard swearers. The very esprit de 
corps, which is in itself a commendable feature 
of the force, leads the constables often 
recklessly to support each other's 
evidence. Besides this, when- 
ever the police make a charge 
against any individual they at 
once jump to the conclusion 
that he is guilty, and there is 
nothing that they desire so 
much as a conviction. 
To such an outrageous degree has the 
acceptance of police evidence extended that 
the public have come to look upon it as 
next to useless to defend themselves against 
a police charge. No better illustration of 
this is to be found than in the complaints 
against omnibus and tramway drivers for 
loitering. One well-known magistrate was 
in the habit of doubling the fine where a 
defence was offered, and, conviction being 
inevitable, the public drivers now invariably 
plead " Guilty " by the instruction of their 
employers. They pay the fine without 
demur, rather than incur the expense and 
delay of what would certainly be a futile 
defence, be the real merits of the case what 
they may. 

Not very long ago a well-known Metro- 
politan magis- 

remiss in the matter of taking depositions 
and notes of evidence. Indeed, this is very 
seldom done at all except in cases of in- 
dictable offence. The rapidity with which 
some of the cases are disposed of is almost 
absurd. For instance, in some courts when 
a prisoner is charged with being drunk and 
disorderly, the magistrate does not even 
give him time for defence, the trial occupy- 
ing about two minutes and consisting of 
something like the following : — Officer 
(kissing the book) : I found the prisoner 
outside the " Green Lion '' publichouse last 
night at twelve o'clock. He was drunk 
and disorderly, and I took him into custody. 
Magistrate (interrupting) : Five shillings, 
or seven days. 

There is no appeal, and no note is taken tricycles, and whenever he had before him 
by means of which a possible injustice might a dispute between a cyclist and a constable, 

trate enter- 
tained the 
strongest pos- 
sible aversion 
to bicycles and 

be investigated. 

Undoubtedly the magistrates ought to 
take notes in every case, so that, in the 
event of a miscarriage of justice, they might 
be submitted to the Home Secretary. 

or, indeed, any other person, it was almost a 
certainty that he would decide in favour of 
the latter. 

The fact that charges against police-con- 
stables are rare is largely due to the hope- 



lessness of success. The Treasury, in our 
judgment very unfairly, places at the dis- 
posal of the policeman the best legal advice, 
and he is represented by a clever criminal 

lawyer, while a poor man bringing a charge 
has to rely upon his own unaided resources, 
or, perhaps, on one of those fifth -rate solici- 
tors who haunt the purlieus of the police- 
courts, and whose advocacy is too often 
detrimental to the interests of their client. 
It is a serious fault in the system that the 
magistrates should always have the same 
division of police before them. Frequently 
seeing the same officers, they become pre- 
disposed in their favour, the more so as they 
find that a great acceleration of business is 
thereby attained. Many of the magistrates, 
indeed, through being too mindful of their 
own convenience in this respect, have 
gradually become mere slaves of the police. 
The magistrate is practically the only 
protector of the public 
against the indiscre- 
tions of the police, 
and if he invariably 
sides with that body 
against the public, 
whose servant he is, 
he undoubtedly fails 
in his duty. 

In order that the 
magistrates should be 
as far as possible inde- 
pendent of the police, 
they should them- 
selves be moved con- 
stantly from Court to 
Court — a course that 
would he more con- 
venient than chang- 
ing the police from 
one division to 

The pcrs'innel of the Metropolitan magis- 
trates, apart from recent appointments, is 
not all that could be desired. Most of 
them are old, and many are of feeble tem- 
per ; and, as a rule, they pose as great 
autocrats. Unfortunately, after frequent 
contact with misery and crime, they are apt 
to become caJIous and indifferent ; but, 
notwithstanding this, be it said to their 
credit, one does sometimes hear of acts of 
kindness and humanity on the part of the 

There is not sufficient facility for appeal 
to protect the poor man against the arbi- 
trary conduct or incapacity of the magis- 
trate. It is true that in cases of imprison- 
ment without the option of a fine an appeal 
may be made to the Quarter Sessions. But 
this is an expensive operation, and it is 
only open to those who have means ; and 

it is a further deterrent that if the appellant 
cannot find bail he must remain in prison 
until the hearing, thus 
adding considerably 
to his punishment. 

But although there 
is practically no appeal 
against the decisions 
of the magistrates, 
they are liable to be 
discharged in case of 
misconduct. Sir 
James Grahame, 
when he was Home 
Secretary, removed 
one of the magistrates, 
and Mr. Newton ran 
serious risk of being 
dismissed in conse- 
quence of giving too 
much weight to the 
charges that had been 
fabricated by the 
police against Miss 




Cass, As it was, he was severely repri- 
manded by the Lord Chancellor. 

It is only just to say that many of the 
Metropolitan magistrates are able and 
painstaking men, among whom, without 
drawing invidious comparisons, we may 
mention Mr. Mead, late junior counsel to 
the Treasury. They are, however, too 
often selected, not on account of any per- 
sonal capacity, but through possessing 
family influence 
in high quar- 
ters. It is most 
essential that 
only men who 
have had experi- 
ence in criminal 
work should be 
appointed ; but 
as it is, in order 
to qualify, they 
have only to be barristers of seven 
years' standing. The choice lies with the 
Home Secretary, and the salaries are 
£i,$oo a year, except in the case of the 
chief magistrate, at Bow-street, who re- 
ceives £ifioo. 

The Bow-street Court is the chief police- 
court in London, and has exclusive juris- 
diction in extradition and in all political 
offences against the Crown. One of the 
ablest and most respected magistrates who 
ever sat at Bow-street was Sir Jpmes Ing- 
ham, who died a few years ago at a very 
advanced age. 

A story is told 
of Sir James 
having once had 
before him a case 
of a man charging 
another with 
stealing his 
watch. It, how- 
ever, transpired 
that the prose- 
cutor had not 
worn his watch 
on the day in 
question, but had, 
in fact, left it at 
home, where it 
was safely found. He was overwhelmed with 
regret at having made a false charge, and 
Sir James, in order to smooth matters, 
said : " We are all liable to make mistakes. 
I was under the impression that I had put 
my watch in my pocket this morning ; but 
on arriving at this Court I found that I had 
left it at home by mistake." When the 


magistrate arrived hotnt in tin: evening, 

his daughter said : "I hope you got your 

watch ail right, papa. I gave it to the "man 

from Bow-street 

who called for 


Too late. Sir 
James recog- 
nised his indis- 
c r e t i o n in 
having stated in 
open court that 
he had left his 
watch at home. 
The " gentle- 
man from Bow- 
street " who had 
taken advantage 
of the informa- 
tion was never 
In the country, and also in many of the 
boroughs, justice is administered by unpaid 
magistrates. There are borough justices, 
composed of the Mayor of the town ex 
officio, and such merchants and well-to-do 
tradesmen as the Lord Chancellor, in the 
exercise of his political discretion, may think 
fit to appoint. The country justices in 
agricultural districts are almost exclusively 
drawn from the ranks of the landed gentry. 
In industrial districts, fuch as Durham and 
Lancashire, from which country gentlemen 
have been driven away by the increase of 
factories, the 
country justice 
usually belongs 
to a lower social 
class, big brewers 
and manufac- 
turers being the 
only p er s n n s 
available. The 
country justice 
has by this time 
obtained a well- 
established repu- 
tation as a 
laughing -stock, 
Fielding, and 
Dickens have successively held him up to 
ridicule, and the modern Press has frequent 
opportunities pf making merry over his 
absurdities. But all to no purpose, for the 
simple reason that though many reformers 
would gladly see the great unpaid abolished, 
no one has yet been able to suggest a means 
of replacing ihein L ':> obvious that a paid 




magistracy could not be established through- 
out the country without a complete re- 
organisation of our judicial system, involving 
great additional expense. 

" Justices' justice " has 
long been a byword, and it 
is curious to note that it is 
usually administered in its 
most drastic and eccentric 
form by reverend gentle- 
men, whose religion one 
would think should guide 
them to more merciful de- 
cisions, even tf they ignore 
the legal hand-books. 

The practice of allowing 
clergymen to sit upon the 
bench is very objectionable 
for many reasons. They are 
often very narrow-minded, 
being for the most part 
unable to differentiate be- 
tween sin and crime, and, 
knowing everyone in their 
parish, they are apt, when opportunity offers, 
to severely punish those who do not belong 
to their own denomination ; and, further than 
this, they are too often the pliant tool of local 
aristocrats. There is undoubtedly a strong 
and apparently uncontrollable tendency on 

magistrates. His knowledge of the law is 
usually not very extensive, and is generally 
derived for the purposes of each case as it 
arises from " Stone's Justices' Manual." 

In many country districts, where 
the justices are old and incom- 
petent, they are absolutely in the 




I'li.Ki ii. drinks, -, 

the part of country justices generally to 
accept the word of the constable rather than 
that of a poor man charged with an offence. 
The constable who assists in protecting 
game and in guarding the landlords and 
their farmers against trespassers, undoubt- 
edly acquires a great deal of influence over 
the bench in many districts. The country 
justices, as a rule, know nothing of the law, 
and are obliged to rely on the advice of 
the clerk of the court, who is often a soli- 
citor of some position, and probably acts as 
private solicitor to oue or more" of the 

hands of their clerk, who for all practical 
purposes becomes not only a magistrate, 
but the sole magistrate present. 

A vicious system prevails it] most pro- 
vincial districts, by which the police have 
the choice of the solicitor who prosecutes. 
The result of this is that, in order to 
ingratiate himself with the police, he is 
always more anxious to obtain convictions 
than to do justice, and is therefore obliged 
to abet the police in all the well-known 
tricks of suppressing facts, and even hard 
swearing in which they sometimes indulge. 
It would be more satisfactory to appoint a 
public official wholly independent of the 
police, resembling the Procurator- Fiscal in 

But although there is a good deal to be 
said against the great unpaid, they are 
perhaps not quite so bad as their numerous 
enemies delight to paint them. A strong 
bench, with a good clerk to keep them 
right in law, has many advantages, owing 
to the variety of mind and judgment brought 
tu bear. 

Origi^a^ ! lTofn >a, 


Some of the magistrates, no doubt, merely 
occupy their positions on the bench for the 
gratification of their own vanity ; but there 
are others who perform their duties ably 
and conscientiously for the public good, 
and these are certainly deserving of the 
thanks of the com- 
munity. It is the 
incompetent men, 
swayed by class pre- 
judices, who, by their 
absurdly vindictive 
sentences in labour 
disputes, trespass 
and poaching cases, 
and the like, bring 
the whole body into 
disrepute. Perhaps, 
if it were necessary 
for those young 
gentlemen who 
aspire to the dignity 
of a magistrate to 
first obtain a call to the Bar, many 
of the present evils might be mitigated. 

The Quarter Sessions are established 
in all the counties, including the 
county of London and other county 
boroughs, as well as in certain Quarter 
Session boroughs. In the small boroughs 
where there are no Quarter Sessions, the 
appeal from petty sessions goes to the 
Quarter Sessions of the county in which 
the borough is situate. Besides its 
appellate jurisdiction, the Quarter Sessions 
constitutes a court for the trial of those 
criminal cases that are not within the 
exclusive jurisdiction of the High Court. 
In London the Court is presided over 
by a salaried officer known as the 
Assistant-Judge ; in some boroughs the 
Recorder presides, and in the counties 
there is usually an unpaid justice called the 
Chairman. All the cases are heard before 
a jury. The Quarter Sessions in the pro- 
vinces are usually attended by a numerous 
Bar, chiefly composed of the younger men 
on each circuit, together with a few more 
experienced barristers who have never 
emerged from criminal work. A prisoner 
unable to employ a solicitor to instruct 
counsel is entitled to secure the services of 
a barrister by handing a guinea over the 
dock, and many young advocates do a brisk 
trade in what are termed " dockers, " It 
would be a great gain if the State were to 
provide for the proper defence of prisoners, 
who are undoubtedly at a great disadvan- 
tage when opposed by astute criminal law- 

yers. In Scotland a system prevails by 
which every prisoner can secure the ser- 
vices of coun?el ; whereas in this country 
they are left entirely to their own resources, 
and there can be little doubt that a mis- 
carriage of justice is too often the result. 
It has often been advocated that the juris- 
diction of Quarter Sessions should be 
extended so as to 
include some of 
those more serious 
cases that can now 
only be tried before 
a judge of assize ; 
and this would un- 
doubtedly relieve 
the pressure on the 
High Court judges. 
But, until the pre- 
siding officer is of a 
higher type than the 
ordinary Chairman 
of Quarter Sessions 
{some of whom, 
however, are very 
capable men), it 
would be unwise to 
enlarge the jurisdic- 
tion. Probably the 
County Court judges — who, at present, have 
ample leisure — might, if better men were 
obtained, be entrusted to preside at Quarter 
Sessions with extended jurisdiction ; and 
certainly, if a Court of Criminal Appeal 
were established, such a scheme as this 
would be open to no objection. 

The judges of the High Court go on 
assize four times a year to try those more 
serious cases which are outside the jurisdic- 
tion of the Quarter Sessions, and also to 
deliver the gaols of such prisoners as, what- 
ever their offence, have been committed for 
trial since the previous Quarter Sessions. 

And while the judges are away on assize, 
the Common Law work of the Metropolis 
is, as we have previously pointed out, abso- 
lutely at a standstill. Even at the Assize 
Court it is doubtful whether adequate 
justice is always done j it certainly depends 
in a great degree on the individual tempera- 
ment of the judges. The extraordinary 
disparity between the sentences passed by 
different judges for offences of the same 
gravity gives rise to continual comment. 
It seems strange, indeed, that the judges and 
chairmen of Quarter Sessions have not 
conferred together to lay down some 
approximate rule as a guidance in the 
measure of their punishments. Some 


OF .' 




judges are in the habit of inflicting almost 
uniformly light sentences, while there are 
others who are remarkable for their 
extreme severity. Lord Coleridge has, in 
a praiseworthy manner, always discoun- 
tenanced ihose barbarous sentences of penal 
servitude for trumpery larceny which have 
sometimes shocked the public conscience. 

It is certainly most objectionable that 
judges who have had no previous criminal 
experience should be sent to try cases of 
serious crime. Before being entrusted with 
such work it is desirable that they should 
go through some form of apprenticeship by 
silting with an experienced criminal judge. 

may appeal from one Court to another until 
he reaches the House of Lords, a man 
fighting for his life, liberty, and reputation 
has no appeal from the verdict of a perhaps 
ignorant and prejudiced jury, acting it may 
be under the guidance of a judge who has 
had no experience in criminal procedure. 
Such a verdict is irrevocable, and at the 
best its effects can only be mitigated by the 
occasional and reluctant intervention of the 
Crown through the medium of the Secre- 
tary of State, who is in a great measure 
swayed by the opinion of the judge. The 
wicked absurdity of such a state of things 
must be at once apparent, especially when 

The present haphazard method was illus- 
trated in a remarkable manner some years 
ago when Mr. Justice North, who had 
passed his professional career in the placid 
atmosphere of a Court of Equity, quietly 
arguing some nice points of realty and 
trusts, became a Judge of Assize. He had 
probably never heard a criminal case tried, 
and perhaps had hardly ever examined a 
witness, so that it was natural enough that 
he should feel himself incompetent for the 
new duties that had been thrust upon him. 
Fortunately, such a gross scandal cannot 
occur again, for Chancery judges have since 
been released from Assize work. 

It is a curious anomaly that while in a 
civil cause involving a trifling sum, a suitor 

it is remembered that judges themselves 
are sometimes prejudiced, and are in any 
case far from infallible. It is true that 
finality in the process of criminal law 
prevents the shocking mental torture that 
must be endured by prisoners lying in 
gaol for weary months awaiting the un- 
certain progress of appeals. But while 
there is life there is hope, and even the 
painful suspense of appeal is preferable to 
an unjust conviction. 

Although there is no appeal in criminal 
cases on questions of fact, it is within he 
discretion of the judge to reserve points of 
law. Legal technicalities, however, do not 
often give rise to mistakes in criminal law, 
and where a miscarries of justice takes 




place it is nearly always in consequence of 
a misapprehension of facts. Too often 
within recent years have subsequent events 
shown that punishment has been inflicted 
upon an innocent man. It is needless to 

tenced to five years' penal servitude, 
Twelve months afterwards a man was 
convicted of a similar offence at the same 
court. On being asked if he had any- 
thing to say, he replied, " Nothing about 
myself, my lord, but something about you. 
A year ago you condemned an innocent 
man, and he is now undergoing penal ser- 
vitude. Mr. Wil- 
liams, my counsel, 
was counsel for 
him. It was I who 
stole the sheep 
that were driven 
from Hornsey to 
the Meat Market. 
I am he for whom 
the innocent man 
was identified/' 

It was at once 
obvious that there 
was a striking 
resemblance be- 
tween the two 
men. The Judge, 
however, pooh- 
poohed the 
matter, and if it had not been that the 
chairman of the Drovers' Association took 
the matter up, the innocent man might 
never have been liberated. As it was, he 
received Her Majesty's " pardon '' and a sum 
of money by way cf compensation. But it 
was too late. The unfortunate man's wife 

multiply instances, many of which are 
doubtless in the minds of our readers. We 
may, however, mention a case that is de- 
scribed at length in his interesting " Leaves 
of a Life," by Mr. Montagu Williams. 

That eminent counsel once defended a 
prisoner who was charged with sheepsteal- 
ing. Two constables declared that they had had died during his imprisonment, and he 
seen the accused driving the flock in the himself had become hopelessly insane, 
early morning, and swore positively to his In this case a failure of justice brought 

identity, one of them having given him a disaster upon a whole family, for they were 
light for his pipe ; and he was also identified all dependent upon the unfortunate pri- 
by another man, who swore that he had soner, who not only suffered by the fatuity 
seen htm drive the sheep into the Meat of the Judge and jury in preferring the evi- 
Market. On the other hand, the members deuce of two policemen to that of several 
of the prisoner's household highly respectable witnesses, but also 

declared that he had been at 
home in bed at the time, and 
had not risen until long after 
the offence had been com- 
mitted. His wife, who had 
been with him, was not allovved 
to give evidence. The 
Assistant- Judge who tried the 
case ridiculed the alibi. " You 
have only," he said, " to state 
a certain number of facts that 
are actually true, to change 
the date, and there you have 
your alibi" 

The jury found the prisoner 
"Gudty, and he .. sen- iflRflm&FWIlGAN 

by the ridiculous law that prevents a 
wife from giving evidence on her 
husband's behalf. 


There is another grave defect in the 
administration of criminal law, but to this 
— as it has been of late widely discussed — 
we need do no more than briefly advert. 
We refer to the fact that England stands 
almost alone in not according to persons 
charged with offences the right to give evi- 
dence on their own behalf Recent legis- 
lation has given this privilege in offences 
of a certain class ; but these cases are rare, 
and they merely accentuate the absurdity 
of closing the mouth of the prisoner in the 
majority of criminal charges. Lawyers of 
experience generally concur in the view that, 
if a prisoner were always permitted to give 
evidence on his own behalf, the innocent 
would be materially assisted. It is a curious 
fact that the present practice is a survival 
of an older system under which a de- 
fendant in a civil cause was also ineligible 

as a witness. The disability has been 
removed in the one case, and there is a 
strong feeling among those who should 
best know, in favour of its abolition in the 

Our review of the Law Courts is now 
concluded. We have necessarily been un- 
able to go very deeply into detail, and we 
have not paused to lay stress on the many 
admirable features that are undoubtedly to 
be found in our judicial system. Our 
object has been to call attention to such 
imperfections as are conveniently open to 
reform. The Legislature has, since we 
began our series, given some tentative 
attention to the matter ; but if improvement 
is to be effected it must be in response to 
the demand of the electors, who should exact 
from their Parliamentary representatives 
a promise of reform, 

Antony Gukst. 


Original from 

Captain Mayne Reid: Soldier and Novelist. 

Bv Mai.tts Ourstei.l Holyoakk. 

Part L— Biographical, 

HE publication of a memoir of 
the late Capt Mayne Reid by 
his widow, has aroused the 
interest of a new generation 
^J in the works of a gallant 
gentleman, whose novels, 
translat. A into :nany languages, gave 
universal pleasure ; and the memory of 
whose brilliant military exploits, in the 
Mexican war of 1 846-8, will ever be preserved 
by those who admire brave deeds.' Three 
countries take especial pride in Mayrce Reid. 
Ireland, the land of his birth ; 
America, the country for 
which he fought, and in 
which the scenes of his chief 
novels were laid ; and Eng- 
land, his home for thirty-four 
years, wherein his books were 

The following sketch is 
indebted for several particu- 
lars to the excellent life of 
Mayne Reid, by Mrs. Reid, 
to whom acknowledgments 
are due for permitting the 
publication of the letters, and 
illustrations presented. 

Capt. Mayne Reid was born 
in April, 1 SiS, at Bally roney, 
in the north of Ireland. He 
was the eldest son of the Rev. 
Thomas Mayne Reid, Pres- tmn MAV! 

byteriau minister, whom he 
was named after ; his mother being the 
daughter of the Rev. Samuel Rutherford, a 
descendant of the *' hot and hasty Ruther- 
ford, 1 ' mentioned in Sir Walter Scott's 
poem " Marmion," which would account 
for Mayne Reid*s fiery temperament. 
Though an impetuous youth with adven- 
turous ideas, longing to travel and see the 
world, his father destined and educated him 
for the Church. At college he obtained 
fair distinction in mathematics, classics, 
and, as might be expected, athletics, but 
for theology he showed a marked distaste. 
With his characteristics and tastes, it is 
therefore not surprising to find that at the 
thoughtless age of twenty, full of golden 
dreams, but with apparently no decided 

purpose, he set out for Mexico, where he 
landed in 1 838, and had experiences of the 
wild and riotous life which was then the 
distinguishing feature of New Orleans. 
Leaving the Crescent City he disappeared 
for a while to enjoy a backwoods existence, 
and for several years his life abounded in 
incidents, fully as romantic and exciting as 
those afterwards detailed as occurring to 
the heroes of his own works of fiction. In 
the. companionship of trappers, he sojourned 
with Indians, and took part in their forays 
when they were a powerful and warlike 
race, and travel in their 
hunting grounds involved 
danger, for in those days 
"wild in woods, the noble 
savage ran " in, so to speak, 
his primal state, uncontami- 
nated by the effacing influ- 
ences of modern civilisation. 
The prairie was then Mayne 
Reid's home, the wild mus- 
tang his steed ; buffaloes 
and " grizzlies " his game ; 
his comrades redskins, each, 
in the words of Longfellow, 

" Armed for hunting, 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and 

Richly wrought uiih quills and 

wampum ; 
On his head his eagle feathers, 
Round his must his belt of 
: nciri, ac.r «», -wampum, 

In his hand his bow of arihuouJ, 
Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 
In his quiver oaken arrows. 
Tipped wilh jasper, winged with feathers." 

His adventures with various tribes on the 
war-path or scalp-hunting have been re- 
counted with unequalled dramatic force in 
those stirring novels, in which, as has been 
aptly observed, the romance is reality. 
Perilous enterprise and hair-breadth escapes 
were his daily lot, and with his strange and 
dangerous associates he made excursions up 
the Red River, and explored the banks of the 
Missouri and the Platte. Afterwards Mayne 
Reid penetrated every State in the Union. 
In those early years of his fight for life, 
besides being a hunter, and trader, he at 
different times was 5 store-keeper, nigger 


o 4 


driver, tutor, schoolmaster, and even for 
a very brief and unappreciated time a 
strolling player, Towards 1843, under the 
signature of the " Poor Scholar," he con- 
tributed poetry to The Pittsburgh Chronicle ^ 
a startling contrast to his previous pursuits, 
and shortly afterwards he settled down as a 
Philadelphian litterateur, writing for 
Godey's Magazine a poem entitled " La 
Cubana." At this time he composed 
" Love's Martyr," ; 
tragical play, betoken 

ng great promise. 
11 ru lie established in 




Philadelphia he en- 
joyed the acquaintance 
of the gifted Edgar 
Allan Poe and his 
beautiful but fragile 
wife, and in after years, 
in defending his 
memory, gave some , 
curious details of the ™ 
unfortunate poet's 
household, Mayne 
Reid's unique experi- 
ences, his knowledge 
of men, and of the 
world, stood him in 
good stead in the early 
portion of his literary 
career, as in the later. 
In 1846 he acted as 
correspondent of Th: 
New Ynrk Herald, 
and was on the staff 
of Wilkes' Spirit 0/ 
the Times. Having 
added poet, dramatist, 
and journalist to the 
list of his numerous 
occupations, he was yet to distinguish him- 
self in another profession. 

In 1846, the war between the United 
States and Mexico broke out. Mayne 
Reid, laying down the pen and taking up 
the sword, sought and obtained a lieutenant's 
commission in the First New York 
Volunteers, under the command of Colonel 
Ward R. Burnett, and in the December of 
the same year sailed for the scene of action. 

The first battle in which Mayne Reid 
took a prominent part, was that of Monte- 
rey, a desperate and sanguinary contest. 
It is not often that warriors celebrate the 
events of a campaign in which they have 
taken part in verse, but some time after, 
Mayne Reid sent, from the seat of war, a 
remarkable poem to Godcv's Magazine, 

entitled "Monterey," breathing the true 
martial spirit, of which the following are 
the opening lines : — 

" We were not many — we who stood 
Before the iron sleet dm day- 
Yet many 3 gallant spirit would 
Give half his years, if he but could 
Have been with us at Monterey." 

Mayne Reid greatly distinguished himself 
at the capture of Vera Cruz, at the battle 
of Cerro Gordo, at 
Cherubusco (where he 
headed the last infan- 
try charge), a» 1 at the 
siege of Cha^ultepec, 
where, on the testi- 
mony of his brother 
officers, he performed 
the bravest and most 
brilliant achievement 
of the campaign, lead- 
ing, under great diffi- 
culties, and opposed by 
unusual obstacles, " a 
forlorn hope" up a 
nearly perpendicular 
height. He was the 
first to scale the castle 
walls, and would have 
been first in Chapulte- 
pec, but a bullet came 
tearing through his 
thigh, and he fell 
wounded into the 
ditch, Two despatches 
of equal fallaciousness 
reached his relatives 
within a short time of 
each other, one stating 
he was dead, and the 
other that not only 
was he alive, but united to " the richest 
heiress in the valley of Mexico." Though 
not killed, Mayne Reid was very dangerously 
injured, and his leg in after years was a 
recurring trouble to him. The splendid 
service he had rendered the storming party, 
for which he had volunteered, was men- 
tioned in the despatches of no less than four 
generals and several other officers, and 
rewarded by promotion. The rumour of 
his death, however, was so strong, that at 
a public banquet in Ohio, in celebration 
of the capture of Mexico, Mayne Reid's 
memory was toasted, and a dirge in his 
honour by a young poetess recited, of which 
the following is a verse : — 

" Gone— gone - gone, 
Cur.e .0 hi, d™le 53 sleep ; 




And spirits of the brave, 
Watching o'er his lone grave, 
Weep — weep — weep." 

Mayne Reid, during the storming of 
Chapultepec, was a very conspicuous figure, 
wearing a brilliant uniform, and an officer 
who did not know him, but witnessed his 
daring achievement, inquired who he was, 
and was answered thus graphically : — 

" A New Yorker, by the name of Mayne 
Reid— a hell of a fellow." 

A rough tribute of praise, of which no 
doubt the Captain was prouder than of 
more refined eulogiums. 

About this period Captain Reid was 
described in an American journal as possess- 
ing the physical perfections of Adonis and 
the Apollo Belvedere, with a dash of the 
Centaur. There is no doubt that he was a 
handsome, reckless, dashing young mili- 
taire, of graceful figure and engaging 
manners, if a trifle hot-tempered. During 
the campaign Mayne Reid had to place 
in irons a regimental desperado of 
immense frame and strength, who- had 
broken out of the guardhouse on many 
occasions. On Mayne Reid entering his 
cell, the fellow made a mad rush at him. 
Reid drew his sword to repel the attack, 
and ran the ruffian through. It was im- 
possible to do otherwise, as the prisoner in 
his frantic fury really impaled himself upon 
the blade. Before dying the man confessed 
that Lieutenant Reid was blameless in the 
matter, and had only performed his duty as 
an officer. Reid was, however, tried by 
court-martial for killing the man, and 

In 1849, on the conclusion of the hostili- 
ties with Mexico, Captain Mayne Reid, 
still "«.. tired by war's alarms," started 
with " achjsen band," raised by himself, to 
assist the Hungarian patriots in their ill- 
fated insurrection. He never, however, 
arrived at the scene of action, b3ing 
encountered by news of their disastrous 
defeat. Bidding the country adieu in 
which he had spent such eventful years, he 
came to England, and again embarking in 
literature, at once took a leading position 
as a writer of fiction, producing in rapid 
succession " The Rifle Ranger," "The Scalp 
Hunters " (which has been translated into 
as many languages as " The Pilgrim's Pro- 
gress," and of which over a million copies 
have been sold), and other books, which at 
once found their way to every boy's library, 
and in which Mayne Reid utilised his 
strangely acquired experiences, so that in 

part they may be deemed autobiographical. 
It is the merit of Captain Reid's works that 
they are all as thoroughly manly, healthy in 
tone, and good in purpose, as they are 
entrancing. Not an ignoble thought or 
word is to be found in them. His pen 
would never trace an unworthy sentence — 
the brilliant imagery in which he revelled was 
that of a devoted lover of nature, and the 
noble deeds of his heroes and heroines were 
the reflex of his own honourable and 
chivalric nature. His novels are veritable 
romances of the prairie, breathing of the 
forest primeval, and the prairie's limitless 
expanse. Though written in the language 
of a prose poem, his tales revealed exciting 
plots and thrilling situations, and as often 
as not were adventures of his own ela- 
borated, or stories that he had heard related 
round the camp fire by reckless and 
desperate trappers. The years Captain 
Reid spent in pursuit of the buffalo and 
the bison, his acquaintance with the hunt- 
ing and fishing grounds of the various tribes 
of Indians, his intimate knowledge of their 
habits and characteristics, could not fail to 
leave their impress upon most of his literary 
productions, which are redolent 
" With the odours of the forest, 

With the dew and damp of meadows ; 

With the curling smoke of wigwams, 

With the rushing of great rivers, 

With their frequent repetitions, 

And their wild reverberations, 

As of thunder in the mountains." 
The charming volumes, written more 
especially for the entertainment of boys, 
'The Desert Home," "The Boy Hunters," 
" The Young Voyageurs," " The Forest 
Exiles," and " The Bush Boys," written 
between 1850 and 1856, contained in at- 
tractive guise a vast amount of botanical, 
geological, and zoological information. His 
instruction in those subjects was impercep- 
tibly administered, being interwoven with 
captivatingly recounted deeds of bravery 
or perilous exploration, such as boys love, 
and were calculated to inspire a desire for 
travel, and ambition for honourable adven- 
ture in the youthful breast. The Captain 
was a most prolific writer, his principal 
works being over forty in number. In the 
numerous illustrated journals for the young, 
the pages of which he enlivened, he always 
occupied the first place in the expectation 
of its impatient readers. 

In 1853 Captain Reid had a passage of 
arms with The Times, which caused at 
the time considerable excitement in the 
journalistic ivcrld. There appeared in The 



Times a proclamation in connection with 
an insurrection in Milan, which that journal 
stated purported to be from Kossuth, and 
to which his name was appended. Captain 
Mayne Reid, who was a personal friend and 
a staunch adherent of the Hungarian 
patriot, then residing in London, addressed 
a letter to The. Times denouncing, in fiery 
and vigorous terms, the proclamation as a 
forgery. The Times did not insert Captain 
Reid's letter, but alluded to it as written in 
" absurdly bombastic language." A copy 
of the Captain's suppressed letter, which 
was very much to the point, was published 
in The Sun. Captain Reid subsequently 
sent Kossuth's own repudiation of the pro- 
clamation to The Times, but no notice was 
taken of it. Many journals commented in 
terms of indignation upon the conduct of 
The Times in refusing to admit In its 
columns either contradiction or correction. 
Captain Reid married Miss Elizabeth 
Hyde (*« Zoe ") the only daughter of Mr. 
George William Hyde, a lineal descendant 
of the first Earl of Clarendon. The Cap- 

tain's courtship seems to have had many of 
the elements of romance in it. The lady 
was very beautiful and very young — so 
young that she was often taken for the 
Captain's daughter, and he himself called 
her his " child wife,' 1 which is the title of 
one of his subsequent novels. The Captain 
fell in love with his "beautiful child wife" 
when she was but thirteen, and married 
her when she was fifteen. He saw in her 
the original of Zoe, in the " Scalp Hunters," 
which creation he regarded as a foreshadow- 
ing of fate. The marriage appears to have 
been a very happy one, and his widow, in 
the life of him she has published, seems to 
be animated by the same admiration and 
loving regard for the Captain as when she 
plighted her girlish troth. 

Captain Reid had, like many of his literary 
brethren, reverses and pecuniary misfor- 
tunes. At Gerrard's Cross, near Slough, 
he embarked in rather extensive building 
operations, erecting a house for himself of 
Mexican design, some cottages, and a read- 
ing-room, which eventually involved him 


scHtL»w<ffcjgjnal fro 



in financial disaster, so that in 1866 he had 
practically to begin the world anew. At 
one time he gave readings in public. In 
1867 he started a paper, The Little Times, 
which soon ceased to exist. Never idle, in- 
cessantly working, his busy pen the same 
year was contributing the " Finger of Fate " 
to The Bo-is Own Magazine, the " Fatal 
Cord " to The Boys of England, besides pro- 
ducing the " Planter Pirate." In the 
autumn of 1867 he went to New York, and 
wrote u The Child Wife," for Frank Leslie's 
paper, receiving 8,000 dollars for it, also 
starting Onward, a magazine which lasted 
fourteen months. 
In 1870 he was 
in St. Luke's Hos- 
pital in that city, 
suffering from 
suppuration of 
his Chapultepec 
wound in the 
thigh, which it 
was feared would 
end fatally, but in 
1872 he was writ- 
ing the " Death 
Shot" for The 
Penny Illustrated 
Paper, and The 

New York Satur- TH| 

day Journal. In 

1875 the "Flag of Distress" appeared in 
Chambers's Journal. All these tales were 
also published in book form by various pub- 
lishers. Captain Reid was an author of 
many publishers, and there are few of that 
much maligned body but have issued, some 
time or other, novels of his. William 
Shobere (1 849), Charles Street (1 85 1), David 
Bogue, Routledge, Hurst & Blackett, Ward, 
Lock & Tyler, Timley, Swan Sonnenschein 
& Co., and Remington, are a few of the 

well-known names that have produced works 
of that active brain, which will amuse and 
delight us nevermore. 

In 1882 he received a small pension, 
which was increased before his death, from 
the United States Government, 01; account 
of his services in the Mexican War. During 
his last years he settled down amid the 
lovely scenery of Herefordshire at Ross. 
Here he wrote " Gwen Wynn, a Romance 
of the Wye." Here also he grew potatoes 
from Mexican seed, and bred Welsh moun- 
tain sheep, with jet black bodies, snow white 
faces, and long white tails. The clothes he 

wore were made from their wool. Captain 
Mayne Reid '3 sheep were a feature of the 
Health Exhibition, where they attracted 
great attention. In The Live Stock Journal, 
to which he was a frequent contributor, he 
explained an interesting theory of his that 
black is the coolest colour for clothing, and 
white the warmest, citing in support of his 
contention the negro, and the polar bear, 
and the polar hare, and fox, which two 
latter are slate blue in summer, and snow 



white in winter 1 . This view has since re- 
ceived scientific acceptation, but Captain 
Reid was the first to challenge the contrary 
opinioa, which until then had held the 
field as an undisputed fact. Captain Reid 
was a great croquet player, and in 1863 
wrote a treatise on the rules of the game, 
which he afterwards found was being issued 
with sets of Cassiobury croquet, as by " An 
Old Hand." The Captain brought a suc- 
cessful action against Lord Essex, with 
whom the responsibility rested. Not long 
before his death, which occurred on October 
22, 1883, Captain Reid was contributing a 
series of articles on the distinguishing 
features of "Rural Life in England" to 
The New York Tribune, in which he treated 
with good-humoured satire the " customs of 

tain Reid visited this fatal valley nearly 
fifty years ago, and graphically described 
his perilous journey, and the physical 
peculiarities of this terrible desert, in the 
" Scalp Hunters," forty years ago. 

When, at the age of sixty-five, Captain 
Mayne Reid passed away, the Press 01 
every shade of opinion rendered due recog- 
nition of the remarkable imaginative genius 
who had for thirty years held spell- bound 
the youth of many lands. The limes, too, 
which the dead novelist had so often and 
fiercely attacked, contained a generous and 
appreciative notice of the career of its old 
adversary. When the proud, intrepid 
heart ceased to beat, and the indomitable 
spirit was laid to rest, died a hunter, ex- 
plorer, naturalist, soldier, novelist, and — 

^^^^y^i^^ef^i^^fr:. itw^ 

VMOClinilE, ROSS, 

the country," in such matters as, for instance, 
" Public Dinners," a chapter in which his 
observations are acute and amusing. Until 
a few days before his last illness, he was 
engaged in completing the "Land of Fire," 
which he was not destined to live to see 
published. His "Mexican War Memories," 
which promised to be of great interest, were 
never finished. A posthumous novel of 
his has appeared, entitled " No Quarter " 
(Captain Reid always chose effective titles), 
a romance of the" Civil Wars, in which 
moving incidents by flood and field are 
detailed with his well-known military accu- 
racy and accustomed force, and the excite- 
ment maintained unflaggingly to the end. 

The American Government have re- 
cently despatched a scientific expedition to 
explore the Colorado Death Valley. Cap- 

remembering his courageous deeds and 
love of danger, it may be added — a hero. 

Part II.— A Reminiscence. 

Nearly thirty years ago it was my good 
fortune to become personally acquainted 
with Captain Mayne Reid under somewhat 
singular circumstances. I was then a boy 
of fifteen, with all the undefined longing's 
and aspirations of that age. "The thoughts 
of youth are long, long thoughts," and the 
future was to me the mystic time to come, 
to which I trusted (ah I how vainly) to 
bring the realisation of my young dreams. 
I read books on every variety of subject 
that I could either buy or borrow : and my 
father having at that time a publishing 
house in Fle^t- street, my opportunities of 




obtaining books to read were considerable. 
Novels 1 devoured with avidity, and none 
gave me greater pleasure than those of 
Captain May ne Reid, who was my favourite 
author at that period, and whose works 
have been read with equal enjoyment in 
later and more mature years. The name 
of w Oceola," which signifies " the rising 
sun," was adopted by me as a nom dc plume 
for some small literary efforts that in thos? 
early years I 
contributed to j 
journals. The 
Jate Mr. Henry 
Merritt, the art 
who, in conjunc- 
tion with Mr. 
R.A., achieved 
the marvellous 
restoration of 
the portrait of 
Richard II. in 
Abbey, was then 
the :.rt critic of 
77< f Morning 
Star, the oTgan 
of the politicians 
then known as 
the Manchester 
School. This 
gentleman used 
to write out his 
art notices 
roughly at first, 
and then make 
alterations, cor- 
rections, and ad 
ditions. It often 
fell to me to 
make fair copies 
of them for the 
Press, and thus I 
became accus- 
tomed to writing 
indirectly for 
The Morning 
Star, and one 

day thought I would write to that paper 
on my own account. A new play of 
Dion Boucicault's was being performed at 
the Adelphi, with incidents in it filched, I 
considered, from Mayite Reid, my favourite 
author. I was filled with youthful indigna- 
tion, and penned a letter to the editor of 
The Morning Star (calling attention to 
this dramatic piracy), which, to my sur- 

prise, was inserted. My father and Mr. 
Merritt reproved me for my juvenile pre- 
sumption, but I was secretly delighted, 
thinking the Byronic couplet — 

" 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's self in print, 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't," 
was equally true regarding a letter. 

Shortly after the publication of my critical 
effusion, on June 20, 1862, I was sitting 
writing for my father in the committee 
room at his 
Fleet-street pub- 
lishing house, 
which was then 
the centre for 
many now for- 
gotten but suc- 
cessful public 
when Captain 
Mayne Reid was 
announced. He 
had come to see 
my father on 
some business 
connected with 
the Garibaldian 
Committee, who 
had been en- 
gaged in des- 
patching the 
English legion 
of volunteers to 
aid General 
Garibaldi in his 
struggle for the 
emancipation of 
Italy. My father, 
who was a per- 
sonal friend of 
Garibaldi, wa 
the acting secre- 
tary of this com- 
mittee. In the 
course of con- 
versation my 
father mention- 
ed to the Cap- 
tain, to whom 5 
was introduced, 
the letter I had written to The Morning Star. 
Captain Reid was very cordial, shaking my 
hand with great energy, and warmly thank- 
ing mc for my defence. He inquired why 
I had not sent him a copy of the letter, and 
requested that one might be sent. The 
Captain further declared that he should 
make it his business to give me a helping 
hand in the literary career that he concluded 




I should embrace. This interview with my 
living hero of heroes was as unexpected as 
it was delightful to me. I stood by, smiling 
and flushing, feeling uncomfortable, yet 
honoured and pleased. Being an enthusi- 
astic peruser of the Captain's exciting books 
(the interest of which, to me, was enhanced 
by the fact that the scenes and occurrences 
recounted with such fascinating and graphic 
power were as much part of the Captain's 
life as David Copperfield was of Charles 
Dickens), I regarded Captain Reid with 
admiration and intensity, and subsequently 
made notes of my impressions of his 
appearance, conversation, and character- 
istics, which have been preserved to this 

Captain Reid, who was then about forty- 
four, was of slight build, ordinary height, 
and military bearing. 

He was attired in a black frock coat, 
worn open, a light yellow waistcoat, 
light yellow gloves, light yellow scarf, 
and light yellow trousers, it being 
the sunny month of June. A Mexican- 
looking face of yellowish complexion, a 
black moustache, and an aspect of determi- 
nation that indicated a life of exposure, 
feats performed, and hardships undergone, 
complete the portrait. Enthusiastic in 
manner, fervid in speech, romantic in 
phraseology, his utterances sounded like 
extracts from his own novels. A handsome 
man, the nobility of whose nature was ap- 
parent, he appeared the living embodiment 
of one of his own heroes of romance. 

I Avell remember, as the Captain was 
leaving, his remark in reference to a 
wish to join Garibaldi. ''But for that 
(naming the circumstance that pre- 
vented him) I would once more un- 
sheath my sword upon the tented field," 
with which dramatic deliverance he 

In the course of a few days I forwarded, 
in compliance with the wish mentioned, a 
copy of The Morning Star letter to Captain 
Reid, at the same time expressing the hope 
that he would find in the good intention 
respecting himself some excuse for the im- 
perfections inherent toyouthfulcomposition, 
as the faulty and boyishly-written epistle 
had not the advantage of revision by 
another, no one being aware of it. 

In due time I received, wiu* inexpres- 
sible satisfaction, the following acknow- 
ledgment from the great novelist, 
whose reputation was then at its 
zenith : — 

The Rancho, 

Gerrard's Cross, Bucks, 

July i, 1862. 
My Dear Young Friend, — You quite 
underrate yourself in calling your letter to 
The Star either faulty or boyishly-written. 
It is, in reality, a very clever communica- 
tion, and most truthfully expresses every 
point in the question, and cannot have 
failed to convince those who read it of the 
correctness of your views. 

I owe you a thousand thanks for your 
chivalric defence, which please accept, and 
believe me, 

Yours very sincerely, 

Mayne Reid. 

"The Rancho," which, in memory of 
earlier days, the Captain had named his 
country home, recalled to mind the abodes of 
the dark-eyed seiioritas who were the hero- 
ines of his romances. Mrs. Reid writes of his 
house as being called " The Hacienda," in 
her recent memoir of her husband. Mr. 
Charles Ollivant, who was Captain Reid's 
secretary, wrote to the papers that the 
Captain's home was known as "The 
Rancho," which is the Mexican equivalent 
for a small house, whereas "Hacienda" 
meant a large house or mansion. The 
veteran journalist, Mr. George Augustus 
Sala, joining in the controversy, contended 
that " Hacienda " meant a large estate or 
homestead, and that a very big " Hacienda " 
may only have a small house upon it. 
Whatever may be the correct meaning of 
the words in question, all the letters I 
received from Captain Reid, spreading over 
several years, were dated in his own charac- 
teristic and picturesque writing from " The 

The true explanation, however, is that 
the Captain's first home was called " The 
Rancho," afterwards altered to "The 
Ranche." The large flat roofed house ot 
Mexican architecture, with an artificial 
pond in front, subsequently built under the 
Captain's superintendence, was always 
known as " The Hacienda," as Mrs. Reid 
rightly names it. 

Three months after the receipt of the 
preceding letter, I wrote a notice of Captain 
Reid's then new novel, "The Maroon." The 
little review appeared in The Newcastle 
Chronicle. It having been quoted in The 
Canadian Illustrated News, was encour- 
agement to write a short sketch of the 
Captain's adventurous life for the same 
newspaper. On publication, both the re- 



view and the sketch were sent to Captain 
Reid, who thus expressed himself respecting 
them : — 

The Rancho, 

Gerrard's Cross, Bucks, 

December 31, 1 862. 
My Dear Young Friend,— I feel very 
grateful and very much complimented by 
your kind notice of me, and were it not 
that just now every moment of my time 
is occupied, I should 
take pleasure in re- 
plying at more length 
to your very kind 
note. As it is, I can 
only say that to earn 
a. livelihood by your 
pen is a wish you may 
not only realise, but, 
if I mistake not, from 
the specimens I have 
seen, your abilities in 
that line will bring 
you, not only a living, 
but a good reputation 
along with it. As soon 
as I am less pressed 
with work I shall en- 
deavour to see you, 
and give you such 
hints as I may deem 
of service to you. 
Meanwhile, wishing 
you the compliments of the season and a 
happy new year, 

I remain. 

Yours very truly, 

Mavnr Rkid. 

In 1864 the brief visit of General Gari- 
baldi to England took place. He was 
entertained by the late Mr. Seeley, M.P., 
at Brooke House, in the Isle of Wight. I 
was now eighteen, and my father was down 
at Brooke House, and accompanied the 
General to London, There was a grand 
reception at Nine Elms Station, at which 
the General, who was accompanied by his 
sons, Menotti and Ricciotti, spoke. I had 
the good fortune to be present, having— 
being ray father's secretary at the time — 
received some platform tickets from the 
Reception Committee. At the conclusion 
of the General's few words of thanks for 
the address of welcome presented to him 
there was a general rush to the carriages. 
The procession was four hours reaching 
Charing-cross, the concturse of people 

being so great. While in London, Gari- 
baldi was the Duke of Sutherland's gue*t, 
and my father took me round to Stafford 
House, to introduce me to the General, 
who held morning receptions of his friends 
in the suite of rooms assigned to him. 
About this time I must have made some 
mention of Garibaldian doings in a letter 
to Captain Re id, who wrote me the 
following interesting letter : — 

The Rancho, 

Gerrard's Cross, 

April S, 1 864. 
My Dkar Young 
Friend, — Allow me 
to present you with 
the enclosed portrait, 
which, I believe, is 
the best yet taken of 
me, and which I have 
not permitted to be 
published. I am glad 
to hear that your 
father is by the side of 
Garibaldi, and I am 
sure no truer friend 
to the hero of Italy 
and Liberty can be 
found in England. I 
knew Garibaldi as a 
; nm, mm s* heroic apostle of free- 

dom long before his 
name had become familiar to English ears. 
I had noted his deeds of daring on the 
southern continent of America, while I was 
myself a sojourner in the North, He was 
winning immortal glory on the banks of La 
Plata, while I was wasting my foolish life 
hunting buffaloes on the banks of the Platte. 
I admired him then ; it would be strange if 
I did not idolise him now. Say to your 
father that when Garibaldi is allowed a 
little leisure — if ever he be allowed it in 
England— I should esteem it a favour to be 
introduced to him. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Mayne Reid. 
To this communication I replied, signify- 
ing my father's willingness to bring about 
the desired introduction, but the Captain's 
enthusiasm was short-lived, and he was no 
longer prepared to idolise the Dictator uf 
Italy, for the reasons given in his reply : — 

The Rancho, 

Gerrard's Cross, Bucks, 
Dkar Yuu\<; Fkiknu, — Please say to 


your father that I no longer desire an 
introduction to Garibaldi. Hi* speech at 
the Crystal Palace, before the Italian 
Committee, will have a damaging effect on 
England's liberty, and an interview between 
him and myself, with those sentiments 
ringing in my ears — the adulation of such 
men as Palmerston and Gladstone — the 
truest enemies of English freedom — along- 
side the poor sophism of our sham pros- 
perity and civilisation — the remembrance 
of these statements put forward in Garibaldi's 
speech would render the interview between 
us (to me, at least), irksome, and un- 

Thank your father for hi* very kind com- 
pliance with my former wish, now no 
longer entertained, and believe me, 
Yours very sincerely, 

Mavnk Rkid. 

A few days after the receipt of the pre- ■ 
ceding letter Garibaldi was hurried out of 
England by the Government of the day, at 
the instigation of Napoleon III. 

" Dream no dream of the future," was 
the advice given by the late Lord Lytton 
on the occasion of a rectorial address to the 
students of a Scotch university, many years 
ago. " For depend upon it," he said in 
effect, " the future will prove to be totally 
unlike anything you now anticipate." The 
truth of these words was verified in my 
case, for, despite my literary aspirations, I 
found myself in 1865 following a much less 
attractive pursuit. Later on, when exploring 
the floral beauties of the lanes of South 
Devon, on the back of 
a Dartmoor pony, it 
occurred to me that 
I might fill up my 
leisure time by con- 
tributing to maga- 
zines. Remembering 
Captain Reid's pro- 
mise to befriend my 
efforts, I wrote to him. 
The Captain to whom 
I, although then a 
young man, appar- 
ently yet remained a 

youth, responded in terms which show that 
even successful and established authors 
encounter periods of depression : — 

The Rancho, 

Gerrard's Cross, Rucks. 
Dkak YoifNG Fkiknn,— I feel great 
regret at my inability to assist you. I have 
tried several publishers of journals, who all 
say they do not need any contributions. 
You will give me credit, when I tell you 
that I am unable to sell any of my own 
stuff just now. There appears to be a stag- 
nation in the publishing market, or else it 
arises from the frightful multiplication of 
writers during the last few years. I shall 
bear your letter in mind, and if I hear of 
anything will communicate with you. 
Yours very sincerely, 

Mavnk Rkid. 

This was the last communication I 
received from Captain Mayne Reid — the 
parting of the ways had commenced — and 
I pursued my prosaic career in various parts 
of England, always noting with pleasure 
any public mention of the Captain until his 
regretted death, 

Such are my recollections of Captain 
Reid, which are recorded as a grateful 
tribute to the memory of the friend of 
boyish days, who equally at ease, whether 
fighting or writing — attained an inter- 
national reputation as a brilliant novelist, 
and a valorous soldier, and to whom belongs 
the double distinction of having made him- 
self, in the words of Montrose, " glorious by 
his pen, and famous 
by his sword," 

At Kensal Green 
a sword and pen 
crossed, carved on a 
block of white marble, 
which is inscribed 
with a characteristic 
quotation from one 
of his earliest works, 
appropriately indi- 
cates the grave of 
"The Boys' Novel- 

Original from 

3HK Emperor 
Charles V., of 
Spain, having 

abdicated m favour of his son, 
had retired to the Monastery 
of Yuste, in order to enjoy in 
the cloister that peace and happiness which 
he had vainly sought for in a monarch's 
turbulent, though brilliant life. 

Philip II. had therefore become, during 
his father's lifetime, the heir to the most 
splendid crown of Europe, nay, of the 
whole world. Nevertheless, he* assumed 
the reins of government without any 
seeming satisfaction. He attended to the 
affairs of State with perseverance and 
assiduity, but with no manifest interest or 
enthusiasm, and with the air of one who 
performs an irksome duty. 

The only relaxation he allowed himself— 
and one he much enjoyed — was to clothe 
himself in a disguise, and to wander alone, 



Brussels, Dressed in the national costume 
of the peasantry, and wrapped in a long 
cloak, Philip would traverse the most un- 
frequented streets, and visit the obscurest 
districts of the city, peering in through 
chinks of windows, and stopping to listen 
at dooTs ; by this means becoming informed 
of secrets of misfortune, which he was often 
able to relieve. 

During these midnight rambles, two or 
three of his faithful guards, ever solicitous 
for his safety, were accustomed to watch his 
figure from a distance, and never let him 
out of sight. 

Cme night when he went out as usual 

to wander through the streets of Brussels, 
he found a young man sleeping on a bench, 
such as in those days stood beside the doors 
of nearly all the houses. He shook him by 
the shoulder and awoke him. 

" Don't you know," he said in Dutch, 
"that it is forbidden to sleep out in the 
open air ? The patrol will soon come 
round, and then you will be taken to 
prison ! " 

"And what's that to me?' 1 replied the 
youth in Spanish, M I am going to conclude 
a piece of business at this very moment, 
which I intended to postpone until the 

" A piece of business at this hour ? " 

" Yes, indeed ! and one of some import- 

" Unless that business be to rob a neigh- 
bour, or to break into a house, I cannot 
think what can concern you at an hour 
when everyone is sleeping." 

"Well,"' replied the youth, " in truth the 
idea of robbery had occurred to me, such as 
you are evidently well accustomed to, since 
you speak of it so freely ; but I had repelled 
the evil thought, and had returned to my 
first scheme." 

"And rr.av I know what that scheme is," 

demoded the dimmed King. 



tt I am not in the habit of making confi- 
dants of people whom I meet with in the 
streets at midnight. You can do me one 
favour, however. I am a stranger here, 
Will you direct me to the river ? " 

Philip acceded to the stranger's wish and 
allowed him to depart, but followed at a 
distance without losing sight of him. 

The young man proceeded to the river- 
side, and climbed a rugged height which he 
discovered by the moonlight. There he 
fell upon his knees and repeated a short 
prayer. Then he arose, and was in the act 
of leaping into the water, when he felt a 
powerful hand grasp him by the collar and 
he was flung backwards on the ground 

It was the King. 

" Do not force me to commit a crime 
before I die," exclaimed the Spaniard, as he 
drew a dagger. " I must choose between 
death or crime. Let me die, or I wiJl stab 
you to the heart.'' 

" Are you a Christian," cried the King, 
" and yet attempt to commit suicide ? " 

u It is singular that you assume 
to question and to judge me ; and 
stranger still that I should answer 
you. But as fate has willed it, I will 
relate to you my history. I left Lisbon 
in the hope of finding a young lady whom 
I dearly love, but whose parents refuse their 
consent to our mar 

riage. This young , ±£ J J&** 

lady has left Bros- Jt, 7 . 

selswith her father. 
I have spent all my 
money. I cannot 
find a way to earn 
a single juaravediz. 
What would you 
have me do ? To 
follow your advice 
— to rob ? " 

" You wish to 
maTry ! " cried the 
King. " Are you 
thinking seriously 
of such a thing 
when you are in 
such poverty ? " 

"Oh, I should 
not have been so 
in Lisbon ! Beheve 
me, had the parents 
of Dona Ltfiza 
Rei n al d o con sented 
to our union, I 
should undoubt- 
edly by this time 

ha%^e been the painter of Doiia Juana, the 
sister of your King Philip II. ; but the 
grandees would not consent to having an 
artist for their son-in-law. They have, 
therefore, departed to the Low Countries, 
wheTeher father has just concluded an im- 
portant mission fof the King. I would have 
followed them, for they have borne away 
my very life and heart ; but as they tra- 
velled in a carriage and I on foot, they had 
already left when I arrived here, and I was 
unable to find out where they had gone. 
Yesterday I was famished. I had no money 
left. I besought an inn-keeper to allow me 
to paint his portrait for the price of a 
supper, but he kicked me out of doors. 
Leave me, then, to fling myself into the 
river, for the Evil One is putting thoughts 
of crime into my soul. Oh ! misery is 
indeed a fearful counsellor ! " 

11 Come, come, you must not so readily 
lose heart." 

"But when one is hungry, what would 
you have him do ? Not eat ? " 

" Come, come ! You said just now that 
you offered to take a portrait for the value 
of a supper. I should greatly like to have 
mine taken, and I will give you twenty 
livres to gratify my whim. Take this gold 
coin ; it is worth more than I have stated, 
but you can give me the change to-morrow." 
" I do not want to receive alms," 
replied the Spaniard proudly, as he 
rejected the proffered coin. 

rial from 



" Remember, it is not given as an alms. 
It is the price of a portrait which you are 
to take of me. Take this." said the King, 
approaching the dim lamp placed before 
the shrine of the Madonna, which stood in 
a crevice of the wall. 

Philip had drawn out his pocket-book, 
and on a fly-leaf written down as follow? : 
" ' / have received the price of a portrait, 
which I engage to take, of the bearer of this 
not?? Now sign it." 

The Spaniard did as he was bidden by 
the King (who all the while was muffled in 
his cloak) and signed the paper^Sanchez 
Coello. They were on the point of separat- 
ing, when the artist called back his un- 
known friend. 

M Where am I to find you ? You know 
no more than I myself where I shall lodge 

" Do not make yourself anxious about 
that. I shall find you," replied the King. 

Sanchez Coello took up the satchel con- 
taining his brushes and colours, threw it 
over his shoulder, and proceeded to a 
hostelry, where he was admitted for the 

On the following morning he was still 
sleeping soundly when a servant entered 

" The King has sent for me ? " exclaimed 
the other, in extreme surprise. 

" Yes, his Majesty in person." 

il But I cannot possibly appear before a 
monarch in these old shabby garments." 

" You must obey instantly ; his Majesty 
does not like to be kept waiting. Come 
with me at once, never mind your dress ! " 

Sanchez Coello arose, and, hastily dress- 
ing himself, prepared to be conducted to 
the Palace. The poor fellow wondered 
what Philip II. could possibly require of 
him, and how in the world the great and 
powerful king of Spain had so much as 
become aware of his existence, far less that 
he had come to Brussels. 

Philip II. was, as usual, dressed in black, 
and surrounded by the principal officials of 

his room. M Seiior ! " he said, " jot several 
days I have been seeking you throughout 
the city. You must appear immediately 
before his Majesty Philip II., who has sent 
for you." 

his court. It was with no little 
confusion that Coello, passing be- 
tween two lines of brilliant cour- 
tiers, reluctantly entered the regal 
chamber in his travel- worn clothes. 
" Sehor Alonso Sanchez Coello," 
said the King, " our well beloved sister has 
informed us that you were in Brussels, and 
she earnestly recommends you to us as her 
favourite painter. 



talent, and therefore we commission you to 
execute a painting representing some 
passages in the life of our blessed patron, 
St. Philip. This picture is destined for 
the Church of St, Ursula, and must be 
ready for the feast of St. Philip, which 
occurs within a month." 

"The term assigned is very short," re- 
plied the artist, " b'.it in token of my grati- 
tude for your Majesty's protection, I will 
engage to conclude the painting by St. 
Philip's eve." 

u 1 accept your word. In my palace 
you will find a room assigned to you, and 
an assistant. Our staff of servants will be 
at your orders, and our treasurer will supply 
you with what sums you may require." 

Sanchez Coello thought that he was 
dreaming, but his dream was a reality. He 
was soon installed in an apartment almost 
regal, while a bevy of servants ready to 
obey his smallest wish were in attendance. 
An easel stood before him, with a large 
canvas ready for his work. He at once 
began to sketch the picture demanded by 
ihe King. 

In spite of the industry and perseverance 
of Coello, the picture was of such colossal 
size that he was forced to work far into the 
night if he hoped to conclude it by the 
time appointed. Indeed, as the time flew 

" At last I have found you ! " cried the 
stranger. " What trouble I have had, to 
be sure ! But how could I imagine that 
the man who meant to drown himself, 
and who was starving, should be lodged 
in the King's palace, with a crowd of ser- 
vants to attend him ! Well, to business ! 
My wife is named Philippa, and you owe 
me the portrait for which I paid you in 
advance. I want you to take my portrait 
instantly, so that I may present it to her on 
the feast of St. Philip.'' 

Sanchez was endeavouring to recognise 
the voice and the features of the man who 
had saved him from death, but he could 
not do so. Yet he spoke of the singular 
adventure of that night — -a circumstance 
unknown to anyone; and moreover he dis- 
played the very note which he himself had 
signed under the lamp of the shrine. 

''I am willing to fulfil my contract," 
replied Coello, jl but not for the feast of 
St. Philip. I have to finish a picture for 
the King, and it will be hard work to have 
it ready by the day appointed. I have noi 
a moment to lose. 

" That is nothing to me. I ordered my 
portrait and paid for it before the King 

by he could not, if he was 
to keep his vow, leave his 
work even for a moment's rest. 
It wanted but a few days to 
the time appointed, and he was labouring 
with feverish haste, when an unknown 
individual entered his studio. 




ordered his picture. 1 now claim it, and 
you must paint it, unless you wish to be 
considered as a man whose word is worth- 
less. Moreover, you would not be in the 
King's palace but for me. Bear that in 

" You are quite right/' replied Sanchez. 
M I shall have to 
risk my future. To 
be wanting to my 
pledged word to the 
King is to lose every- 
thing; but sit down, 
and I will take your 
portrait, even 'if I 
be disgraced in the 
King's eyes." 

The stranger sat 
down, and Coello 
began to take his 
portrait. He was a 
man of fine phy- 
sique, with a face 
full of intelligence 
and nobility. He 
watched Coelln at 
his work with a sin- 
gular curiositv, and 
manifested himself 
somewhat of a critic, 
as the artist gathered 
from the observa- 
tions which involun- 
tarily escaped him. 

After six hours' 
assiduous work the 
portrait had pro- 
gressed considerabl y, 
and would require 
but a short time 
more to finish it. 
Sanchez threw him- 
self in an armchair, 
and appointed an 
early hour the next 
day for his sitter to 
return, when he 
hoped to conclude 
the portrait. 

It was the eve 
of the feast of St. 
Philip. Sanchez had 

concluded the portrait ; but though he sat 
up the whole of that night at work, he 
was unable to finish the King's picture, and 
in the early morning, worn out by fatigue, 
he was still holding the palette and brush, 
when Philip entered his studio. 

On perceiving that the picture was 

unfinished, the countenance of the King 
became clouded by displeasure. 

" You have been wanting to your word,'' 
he cried in a severe voice. 

Sanchez hung his head without replying. 
The King glanced round, and his eyes fell 
on the purtrait of the stranger. 

" By St. Philip ! " 
he exclaimed, " yon 
have been amusing 
yourself by taking 
the portrait of a 
private individual 
instead of working 
at my picture! 
Through you r failure 
I am now unable to 
present the picture 
I commissioned you 
to paint, and the 
ceremony will have 
to be postponed. 
This is a serious 
business, Sefior 
Coello ! " 

So speaking, the 
King turned, and 
left the studio, leav- 
ing the artist in the 
direst dismay. 

Half an hour later 
Coello was sum- 
moned to present 
himself immediately 
1 before the King. He 
obeyed in terror, 

•" Sefior Alonso 
Sanchez Coello," said 
the King, " you have 
been wanting to your 
pledged, word ; but, 
on the other hand, 
you have fulfilled a 
promise which you 
had formerly nude 
to me." 

The Spaniard 
looked at Philip in 
speechless surprise. 
„ "Yes," continued 

the King, " the stran- 
ger whom you en- 
countered on the night of your despair, 
and the King, are one and the same per- 
son ; with the sole difference that I sent 
in my place, to have his portrait taken, 
Ottovenius, the most celebrated Professor 
of Antwerp. You may now conclude the 
painting of Sf". Phil.p &t vour convenience ; 




all the more as we are now about to 
celebrate a wedding." 

Taking a silver whistle, which hung from 
his waist, the King blew a note upon it ; 
and in a few moments Sanchez Coello saw 
Professor Ottovenius enter the apartment, 
leading Dofia Luiza by the hand, and 
followed by Don Reinaldo and his wife. 
Sanchez Coello fell on his knee before the 

The marriage of the artist and Dofia 
Luiza was soon after solemnised in the Royal 
Chapel . 

King Philip manifested feelings of deep 
friendship towards Sanchez Coello. On his 

return to Spain, he brought with him hia 
favourite artist, who, moreover, accompanied 
him in most of his military expeditions. 

Sanchez Coello several times took the 
portrait of Philip II., on horseback and on 
foot. He was covered with honours and 
distinctions by the most powerful crowned 
heads in the world, by Popes, Dukes, and 
Cardinals. At his table sat Grandees of 
Spain, and his house was the resort of the 
highest dignitaries of the Church and State, 
so that often two extensive courtyards of 
his residence were filled with litters, car- 
riages, and sedan chairs. He became the 
most famous artist of his time, and amassed 
a princely fortune. 

Original from 

Original from 

{After the picture in the Royal Academy by H. Stan Marks, R.A.) 

Original from 

Illustrated Interviews, 

WL MARKS lives in one of the 
quietest corners of St. John's 
Wood, his house being in 
Hamilton-terrace — a place of 
abode which goes a long way 
to substantiate the maxim 
not to put trust in outward appearances. 
The exterior bears a positively solemn 
aspect, and in the winter, when all the 
bright green leaves have disappeared, must 
be even funereal. But what a trans- 
formation when you have once passed 
through the door ! True, there is nothing 
that I am inclined to call extravagantly 
artistic. It is the home of a man who wants 
to work. There is not a room in the place 
that is not characteristic of the man who 
uses it. The studios are sensible painters' 
workshops. The drawing-room suggests 
excellent company and merry entertain- 
ment, while the dining-room has a dis- 
tinctly family air about it. Mr. Marks has 
not obtained his present position — and who 

does not know him as the most brilliant 
painter of bird life we have ? — without many 
a struggle. Probably his own kind dis- 
position to listen to the young aspirant 
seeking after glories with brush and palette 
has been wrought out of his own early 

Mr. Marks has been referred to as the 
light comedian of the brush. He says him- 
self that if he had not been an artist he 
would have been an actor. If you saw him 
holding forth in the studio occasionally, or 
heard him rattling off a good song, or telling 
an anecdote with all the point and crisp- 
ness of experience, you would at once 
admit that the stage has lost a good man. 
However, our feathered friends have found 
a faithful chronicler of every feather they 
possess, from the tufts on their head to the 
tips of their tails, Mr. Marks has promised 
me to unburden himself of his past life-. 
He has got a diary upstairs, and a little 
account -book with the most curious little 


OF ,' 



sketches one could possibly imagine — little 
sketches which have been made by the 
R,A. in embryo. 

" You must not notice the carpet," said 
Mr. Marks, " I told my wife that she ought 
to see that something smarter was putdown 
this morning, because I was afraid that it 
was a lady who was coming to see me. 
However, come along." 

" What is that ? Oh, I have all those 
arranged near the door. They are my 
diplomas. You see the Royal Academy om: 
is signed by the Queen. There is another 
there from Melbourne ; another there signed 
by Leighton. You see, when the trades- 
people catch sight of those things, when the 
door is open, it inspires their confidence. 
Not a bad idea, is it ? " 

Mr. Marks' weakness for birds is every- 
where visible. He has painted storks o\er 
the opening of the letter-box ; birds of 
beautiful plumage on the door-plates ; and 
birds worthy of being honoured by a better 
position in all kinds of out-of-the-way 
places ; some of them almost hidden from 

The first room I looked into was a dress- 
ing-room — remarkable for its waahstand, 
It is most curiously made, with fish painted 
at the back of it on 
fluted glass, which 
gives the idea that 
they are swimming 
about in water. The 
bowl is made of copper, 
and would hold several 
gallons of water ; while 
in order to match, the 
ewer is shaped like a 
huge spirit measure, 
similar to those used 
for measuring spirits. 
Here Mr. Marks comes 
every night for half an 
hour and reads before 
going to bed. His boys' 
bedroom is near ; partly 
fitted up as a workshop, 
with a lathe and other 
things, for all his chil- 
dren have hobbies. 
Just outside this room 
is a little black frame sul . Ki 

containing six very 4/.«rfl» *w«t;»»i 

realistic sketches by 
Mr. Marks done at an early age. Even 
then he had a weakness for birds — a 
weakness which was to become his very 
Strength. Three of them were done as far 

back as fifty -four years ago, and portray 
various representatives of the feathered 
creation ; while the other three are the 
bear pit at the Zoo, with Bruin at the top 
of his ragged pole being fed by a keeper, to 
the great delight of the children gathered 
around ; Mr. Pickwick on the ice — which 
the young artist was conscientious enough 
to add was " After Phiz " j and a representa- 
tion of a certain gentleman generally asso- 
ciated with the Fifth of November. 

Passing downstairs again and walking 
along the entrance hall in the direction of 
his dining-room, I noticed arranged along 
the walls reproductions in black and white 
of various pictures which have helped to 
make him famous. Here is "The Orni- 
thologist " ; here again that charming little 
work representing an old man with tape 
and skull in hand, taking a measurement 
of it, and called u Science is Measure- 
ment," This latter he painted when he 
was made R.A., it being customary on such 
occasions to present a picture to the 
Academy worth not less than ^~ioo. Here 
again is a study of his mother's head, 
and in close proximity a capital work 
entitled, " An Episcopal Visitation," which 
may b; familiar to many. 

The dining-room is 
fefife^ a sort of family portrait 

gallery. Over the 
chiffonier is a portrait 
of Mr. Marks himself 
— probably the best one 
—painted by Ouless. 
Also a pretty little 
picture of his eldest 
daughter when she was 
ten years old, painted 
by Calderon ; and an- 
other — a highly prized 
one — by the same 
artist, showing Mr. 
Marks in the blouse 
he wore in Paris when 
he was studying with 
Calderon in the gay 
city. In the window 
of the dining-room is 
an elegant aviary con- 
taining some delightful 
specimens of Java 
■ *• Ctffcw*, r.a. sparrows frisking about 

in company with bull- 
finches and canaries. Russ, the dog, 
named after Ruskin, is running about ; 
and the smallest of monkeys, a marmozet, 
nicknamed Jnck, is exlra frisky this morn- 




ing, and has just climbed up the lace 
curtains at the windows. Nothing will 
satisfy Jack until the artist has allowed him 
to perch for a few moments on his shoulder 
and put one of his arms around his neck. 

In the morning-room arc many artistic 
treasures. The furniture is all black, re- 
lieved with red, and there are some fine 
Chippendale chairs and an old Dutch 
cabinet ; while in front of the fender is a 
huge Chinese umbrella, on which Mr. 
Marks has painted number of great black 
fishes, appar- 
ently swimming 
round and 
round. The 
piano, too, is ■ a 
curiosity, being 
painted by the 
artist to repre- 
sent the orches- 
tra of the Muses. 
The pictures 
here are exceed- 
ingly interest- 
ing. Here is a 
study of the back 
of Mr. Marks' 
head, done by 
his drawing- 
master in 1856. 
Here, too, is the 
only thing 
which the artist 
has ever had the 
luck to win in a 
raffle. It was in 
1865, at which 
time a number 
of artists in 
St. John's Wood 
had formed 
themselves into 
a little society 
known as "The 
Gridiron," for 
the purpose of 

criticising one another's pictures. The 
little sketch — a pictorial skit — hits off very 
happily the members of the Gridiron 
Society. Mr. Fred Walker is taking a 
walk on a cliff, surrounded by numbers of 
ghosts. Mr. Yeames, who 'had just got 
married, is shown with a wedding ring in 
his hand. Mr. J. E. Hodson, eminent for 
his Elizabethan pictures, is shown with a 
huge ruff around his neck ; and Mr. Marks 
is with his old friend, Mr. Calderon, floating 

along together, each with a gridiron on 
■ his breast. The picture is signed " F. W., 
Torquay Asylum, 1 865.'' It was raffled 
for at Mr. Walkers house, and Mr. Marks 
won the treasure. 

There is just time to peep into the draw- 
ing-room, which is a very artistic apartment. 
It opens out on to the garden, and the walls 
are painted a delicate sage green, with a 
pale warm blue dado. Water-colours are 
plentiful, and some exquisite 'Chippendale 
furniture adds to the beauty of the room. 
What strikes me 
as the curiosity 
of the room is 
a map worked 
on silk, showing 
the Eastern 
W o r 1 d and 
Africa, marked 
" Negroland." 
The artist 
frankly declared 
that he picked it 
up for five shill- 
street, though he 
believes it to be 
a hundred years 

We are now 
in the principal 
studio — a fine, 
square, spacious 
room with three 
entrances, A 
bust of the artist 
by Ingram is 
over the mantel- 
boa rd, while 
around the walls 
on great shelves 
are arranged 
many an artistic 
" prop," which 
has from time 
«c ptomAwt*** to t i mu figured 

in his pictures — 
among them an old drum of a hundred 
years ago ; lanterns, goblets, and many 
other things. On the mantel-shelf is a 
perpetual calendar, on the back of which is 
written, " This is a copy of one that 
belonged to Charles Keati." Here also 
is his. wardrobe, contained within a fine 
bit of furniture of massive oak, which 
Mr. Marks was fortunate enough to pick up 
for three guineas whilst going his rounds 
in search of curio:-.. The various drawers 



are labelled, " Jingle," " Sheridan," " Foot- 
man," " Dr. Johnson," '' Robespierre," 
" Stockings," u Collars," *' Shirts/' &c. 
There are also a number of stilettos and 
daggers, and an old umbrella, all huddled 
together. A ten-and -sixpenny old Dutch 
clock is in a corner, worth many pounds 
now, for the case has been decorated by 
Mr. Marks with, many artistic designs. 
Stuffed birds, too, are hanging about. Here 
is one which Mr. Marks takes from a little 
case. It is a specimen sent to him by Mr. 
Fred Barnard — a little sparrow, labelled "A 
Common G utter-perch er." Mr. Marks has 
also a fine collection of old watches ; and 
amongst his curios a brass tobacco-box, on 
putting a penny into which it opens, and 
you can take a pipe-full of the weed. It is 
similar to one which has written on it — 

" A halfpenny drop into the till ; 
Turn the handle, you may Fill ; 

Wlnjn yuu Ikivi- iilloj, without delay 
Shut down the lid, Or sixpence pay." 

Not the least highly prized curio which 
the artist possesses is one stamped " J. R. 
to H. S. M., 1880." It is a little carving of 
a heron in opal intended for a breast-pin, 
given to him by Mr. Ruskin. Mr. 
Marks had it fitted up and placed in a little 
silver casket. He has also one of the 
tiniest paint boxes in existence. There 
were only three made. One is ill the 
possession of the Princess Louise ; another 

is owned by Mr. Arthur 
Severn, R.I., who made 
them ; and the third is 
this of Mr. Marks. It is 
in the shape of a charm 
for a watch-chain, but, on 
opening it, it is found to 
contain all the necessary 
colours in miniature for 
painting a picture. 

M Now sit down/' said 
Mr. Marks, taking out a 
huge cherry-wood pipe, 
and commencing to light 
up. u Oh, yes, I am a 
big smoker, and generally 
enjoy the weed ail the 
morning during painting. 
I have got quite a small 
collection of pipes. Now 
I will give you a few 
extracts from my diary." 

While he is turning to 
the page I note down a 
little picture of himself. 
He wears a brown 
velvet jacket ; his hair is growing grey ; 
he is stoutly built, full of energy, has a 
keen appreciation for a joke, and his eyes 
have ever a merry twinkle in them. 

11 Now are you ready ? " said he. " Well, 
my father had a large carriage repository. 
It was on the site of the Langham Bazaar. 
He early set me my first lessons in drawing. 
You see, we needed to have a number of 
heraldic signs for the doors of the coaches. 
He would sketch these in a book, and give 
them to me to copy. I fear, however,. I 
did not copy many in the book that he 
gave me. There's the book ; just glance 
over it." 

I did so, and found that he had copied a 
boar's head and a stag's head ; a crown, 
and unicorn, and a lion ; but the boar had 
a ring through the nuse, which distinctly 
differed from his father's copy above. There 
were others which showed that the youthful 
artist had indulged his original fancy, for 
in turning over the pages I came across 
ships, fish, elephants, a dead donkey being 
carried home, a horse of somewhat lively 
temperament kicking out at its master, who 
had fallen from its back, with the suggestive 
words underneath, " Woe ! woe ! " Even 
at that early date Mr. Marks had given a 
rough sketch of the building where he was 
afterwards to study, and which is labelled, 
"Academy." There was also "John Gilpin 
on his ride to Edmonton," and a very 



fanciful idea of Sinbad the Sailor. The 
sea is shown, with Sinbad's vessel above, 
floating on the water ; while down below 
two or three men are walking about en- 
gaged in pushing a tremendously big whale 
five times the size of the vessel above. 
" Jim Crow's Palace " is a very neat little 
drawing. One of the Knights of France, 
with the word " Brave " scratched out, is a 
sketch of a man with small moustache and 
a single small eyeball. Altogether, the 
book contains something like three hundred 
pencil sketches. 

"Not bad, are they?" continued Mr. 
Marks. " Well, let me give you a few 
notes of my career. My mother was a 
great help to me in every way. She helped 
me to go to an evening school, to Leigh's 
Evening School of Art, although my father 
encouraged me very little. I remained 
there some time, going to the school before 
breakfast and again in the evening, filling 
up my time by making occasional diagrams 
for lectures and copying a picture now and 
again. In June, 1850, I was a rejected pro- 
bationer at the Royal Academy. I was 
then twenty-one.* My father offered to allow 
me fifty guineas to start on my 
own account, but somehow I did 
not get them. In the fall of the 
year I got into the Royal 
Academy School, and my father 
allowed me three days a week to 
draw. I worked and worked 
away with all my heart, and 
determined to succeed in the 
position that I had chosen. I 
am afraid my father did not 
think much of my artistic capa- 
bilities, for he got me a position 
as check-taker to a panorama of 
the Ganges, painted by Dibdin, 
and exhibited in Regent-street. 
Dibdin is now over eighty years 
of age, and has lost his sight. It 
was not very hard work — four 
hours a day — for which I was to 
receive thirty shillings per week. 
The engagement, however proved 
a failure, for it ended in a week 
and I never got my wages. 

"On the 30th January, 1852, 
at seven o'clock in the morning, 
I bade my mother good-bye, and 
Calderou and I started from 
London Bridge, bound for Paris, 

It was a bitterly cold morning ; the wind was 
enough to cut you in two. At Paris we got 
a room together ; slept, worked, ate, drank, 
and thought together. After six mouths we 
found our money had gone, so we returned 
to England. Then I found that ray father 
had gone to Australia, so I joined the School 
of Art again. Then my first bit of luck 
came. At the end of the year I finished a 
single figure of ' Dogberry Examining Con- 
rade and Borachio.' This was accepted at 
the Academy in 1853. I have a very pretty 
story to tell you about this. I had made 
up my mind that after all my mother had 
done for me she should have the money 
that I realised for my first picture. I had 
an offer of £\Q for my picture, but I wanted 
^"25. My customer was willing to go as 
far as ^"15. I almost hesitated then, but 
I wanted the money, so I agreed to take it. 
I went off to Mr. Christie, stockbroker, of 
Copthall-chambers, drew the cheque, and 
got it cashed. He took me to lunch with 
him, afterwards to the Victoria Theatre, 
and then to supper at a well-known house. 
On reaching home that night I did not 
hesitate what to do. Although I could 

* Portraits of Mr. Marks at different 
ages appeared in our last number. 



have managed with the money very well, 
I slipped quietly inU a room where I knew 
my m6ther would come, and, taking the 
fifteen golden sovereigns out of my pocket, 
I laid them on the edge of the table in such 
a position that when she entered the room 
she could not fatl to see them. I never 
enjoyed a sale so much. 

"I got married in 1856 on the strength 
of my picture, * Toothache in the Middle 
Ages,' which, 1 suppose, was the first one 
which brought me 
into anything like 
notoriety. It was 
bought by Mr. Mudie, 
the librarian, who 
died recently, and 
who was a good friend 
to me. Landscer 
noticed this picture, 
I have a very funny 
anecdote to tell you 
about this. While I 
was painting this 
work in a small room, 
there was a dentist 
living a few doors off, 
who had outside his 
shop a head which 
used to open and shut 
and show teeth and 
no teeth. Well, I 
received a letter 
purporting to come 
from him, saying 
that he had heard 
that I was painting a 
picture which he 
thought was an ex- 
ceedingly witty idea ; 
he wanted it, and would pay for it. But I 
should have to paint a companion picture to 
it, entitled, ' No Toothache since M. Andrew 
Fresco has lived in Modern Times. 1 He 
would sit as the model. This letter was 
dated April 1. I Teplied that I was ex- 
ceedingly flattered by his kind offer, but 
before sending in the picture, as it was 
nearly finished, I should like him to call 
and see it. To this I got a reply containing 
the simple words : ' M. Andrew Fresco 
knows nothing at all about the matter.' 
The whole thing was the hoax of a young 
cousin of mine, and, since he perpetrated it, 
I will give his name to the world. It was 
Dr. D. Buchanan. 

"In 1859 I was doing a good bit of work 
on wood blocks, and also stained glass. It 
was in this year that I sold a picture for 

t*oJf <jWffa«if/or Ui 

150 guineas, ! Dogberry's Charge to the 
Watch ' ; I also decorated a church at 
Halifax. In i860 Mr. Mudie took me and 
another artist for a trip up the Rhine. 
What I then saw of the glorious scenery 
settled my mini altogether. I would give 
up all the other odd work I was doing, and 
devote my whole time to painting ; nothing 
but starvation should stop it. That same 
year I painted a monk carving a model, 
which was accepted in 1861, and that 
marked an epoch in 
my life. This was a 
commission from Col. 
Akroyd, and I asked 
300 guineas. He 
;.aid : Send it to the 
Academy, and he 
would be there at the 
private view and see 
what it was like. He 
was there, but it was 
bought during the 
first hour, previous 
to his arrival, for 300 
guineas, by Mr. 
Agnew. With that 
money I opened an 
account at the Lon- 
don and Westminster 
Bank, Bloomsbury, 
and I have kept it 
there to this date. 

" I was elected 
A.R.A. in 1871. I 
think that was prin- 
cipally owing to the 
painting of my 
picture, ' St. Francis 
Preaching to the 
Birds.' I got ^"450 for that work ; it 
was accepted in 1870. Exactly ten years 
before I had asked Mr. Knight, the secre- 
tary, to put down my name ; so that I had 
waited ten years. On December 19, 1878, 
I was elected a full-blown R.A. in place of 
Sir Francis Grant, and I was the first Royal 
Academician made under the presidency of 
Sir Frederic Leighton. I have only been 
absent from the walk of the Royal 
Academy two years since 1853. 

" I must tell you a little anecdote about 
my ' St. Francis,' It was sold some time 
afterwards for ^"1,155. I used to borrow 
from an old gentleman a number of stuffed 
birds. Soon after the sale he came to me, 
and I said to htm, ' I want some bird skins, 
if you have got any.' And he said, ' Yes, I 
can let you have some. How many do you 



want ? I suppose you vvant them for a pic- 
ture.' I replied, ' Yes, I do.' He said, ' I 
hope those I sent you for your last picture 
suited you ? ' ' Yes,' I replied, ' splendidly. 
It sold the other day for XmSS* ' Good 
gracious ! ' he said. * You might have 
come up to my place, and had the whole 
lot in my shop for a couple of hundred.' 

" I do not know if I have anything more 
to say about 
myself," con- 
tinued M r. 
Marks ; "but 
anything you 
say about me as 
to my personal 
must include 
that I am a 
great lover of 
books. I make 
all my own 
design them 
myself, and I 
do a little 
poetry. Years 
ago 1 used to 
be a Volunteer. 
There is some- 
thing interest- 
ing about that, 
perhaps. I 
joined the Art- 
ists in 1862, and 
I did not leave 
until I had a 
son in the corps. 
On June 7, 
1879, there was 

an inspection at the Horse Guards, 
and the remarkable sight was presented, 
which has probably never been seen before, 
of an R.A. as a full private in the ranks, 
and his son as his rear rank man. After 
that I resigned. 

" Models ? Oh, yes, I have had some 
strange things in models — all sorts and con- 
ditions of models. There was a model 
whom we used to call dimming. He was 
extraordinarily slight and thin. All my 
costumes were too long for him ; all the 
pairs of tights I had were ' a world too wide 
for his shrunk shanks.' I am afraid I chaffed 
him unmercifully about his spafeness. I 
remember showing him once some of my 
children's garments, and asking him, ' Do 
you think that would fit you ? ' He used to 
say he had been an officer in a cavalry 

task, and placing the foaming f 
on the table, said, ' Things ha 1 

regiment ; but this assertion, I found out 
afterwards, had no foundation in fact. One 
day, when sitting to a friend of mine, he 
was asked to go out and fetch some beer 
— not a very uncommon request among 
struggling artists. This he was nothing 
loth to do, but quickly accomplished his 
pot of stout 
lave come to 
pretty pass 
when an ex- 
officcr of the 
14th Light Dra- 
goons has to 
fetch his own 
beer.' But the 
most uncon- 
sciously humor- 
ous and charac- 
teristic model I 
ever employed 
was one Camp- 
bell, whom I 
more than once 
painted as Dog- 
berry. He had 
been a shoe- 
maker. Almost 
the first occa- 
sion he came to 
me he told me 
the following 
story : — 

" ' I took 
home a picture 
to the Dook of 
Wellington one 
day, and, as I 
was taking it 
up in the hall, 
he comes by, and says, "Oh, you comes 
from Messrs. Bennett." " Yes, sir,' 1 I 
says. With that he passes on, and 
out comes at the front door a man dressed 
a!l in black, and comes up to me — his 
butler, I suppose. He says, " Do you know 
who you were a talking to just now?" 
"Yes, sir," I says, "Arthur Wellesiey, 
better known as Dook of Wellington." 
"Then, why don't you say ' Your Grace ' to 
him ? " " Grace ? " says I ; M why should I say 
grace for ? there's no meat here. Where's 
the viands ? Why, I said sir to him — a 
common title of respect between man and 
man." u Well," says he, " you are a rum 
sort of customer, you are. What do you 
call the Duke ?" " What do I call him ? " I 
says ; " a wholesale carcase butcher I Look 
at his c;i reer. I !•; hegins by going to France 




to learn the art of war, and then he goes 
to India and kills thousands of natives who 
were only defending their own country, and 
at last turns his arms against the country 
where he first learned the art of war, and 
murders thousands more. A wholesale 
carcase butcher ; that's what I call him." ' 

" This man was a great poet, too," con- 
tinued Mr. Marks. u Sometimes when I was 
giving him a little rest, he would say, 
' Would you like a little verse or two, sir ? ' 
I often used to humour him, and he would 
recite some really 
good verses. Here 
is a specimen : — 


1 To grin at our snug 
little island of 

The despot of 
France when to 
Calais he came, 

His glass from his 
pocket beginning 
to draw, 

Wats struck wiih 
amaze when old 
England he saw. 

Britannia she sat on 
the white rocks 

But she needed no 
spy-glass to look 
at that elf, 

B 1 wonder," she 
said, " what that 
simpleton's do- 

Replied Liberty, 
"Sister, he's plot-" 
ting your ruin." 

"Is he so?" said 
Britannia; "then 
let him plot on, 

I am more than a match for 

that desperate don. 
Let him come, if he likes, I 

will never deceive him. 
If he tries to get near, we will 

warmly receive him. 
Let him talk as he likes ; for 

his byaitiiig who cares '{ 
'Hie he gives us the skins, he 
must slaughter the bears." ' 
"A good many models 
are addicted to drink, 
and, after sitting a while, 
will suddenly go to sleep. 
Then I have had what I 
call the ' super ' model. 
You know the sort of man ; 
he goes in for theatrical 
effect ; always has an ex- 
pression of ' Ha ! ha ! more- 
blood I see wanted,* and 
■"■* °" ,0 "*"'»'- that sort of thing." 

Mr. Marks then puts 
on his hat, and we pass through a smaller 
studio and glass-house, the former con- 
taining a very curious cabinet, which he 
painted some years ago. depicting a 
nursery tale, " Sing a Song of Sixpence " ; 
and there is the king counting out his 
money, and the blackbird descending 
and pecking off the maid's nose, the 
Queen eating honey, the pie open before 
the King with the twenty-four blackbirds. 
This goes round the four sides of the 
cabinet, which is used for brushes, colours, 
varnishes, &c. Pass- 
ing into the garden 
there is the pet jay, in 
his cage by the tree ; 
the fountain is play- 
ing ; and Tommy, the 
tortoise, is crawling 


""Original from 



Amsnj M^flJ, {,Wd<xm 

\Vi'tfi »* p* *p«tcK dlirifitfT ^Weoi, 
*TV*fl dojDuJoed wy cp ugh U h**y 
MdasfcrvAis.tting-that6f L 

{Dranri tptciallu fur thit article b V 3lr. JTarfa.) 

quietly round the banks of a small lake in 
which gold fish are sporting themselves. 
In our illustration Jack, the marmozet, is 
to be seen sunning himself upon his 
master's shoulder. 

We are now on our way to the Zoo, as 
Mr. Marks has promised to spend the re- 
mainder of the afternoon with me at a spot 
where he probably knows every bird in the 
place, and where many of them know him. 
As soon as we arrived there the artist took 
me into one of the houses where is a beau- 
tiful mynah, from Northern India. It 
seems that this bird has been here since 
1 88 j. Some time ago the keeper had a 
bad cough, and found that the bird imi- 
tated him. This gave him the idea of 
teaching it to talk ; it will now say almost 
anything. A good story is told of an old 
gentleman who went up to the bird, and, 
quite innocently, said, "What a pretty 
bird ! " "I should think I was," it replied. 
" Ha, ha ! " laughed the old man. " Ha, 
ha ! " laughed the bi^d m response, and 
there were the two laughing at one another 
for quite five minutes. This bird has been 
painted twice by Mr. Marks, to whom we 
are indebted for the accompanying sketch 
and verses. 

Then Mr. Marks proceeded to point out 
his favourites ; the vultures just getting 
tliL-ir summer plumage, the cockatoos and 
parrots ; and he showed me nearly all the 
parrots that had posed as models for his 
great picture in this year's Royal Academy, 
the " Select Committee," and which we re- 



firoduce with his permission as the 
rontispiece of this number. The 
chairman of the committee, by a 
long way the most important 
looking bird, has a beautiful blue 
plumage ; and the artist spent 
some two or three months painting 
it Then the military macaw, so 
called because of its tuft, is there, 
and at the word of command wil' 
bite his leg, and if you get too 
near will pull off your cap. Inside 
the parrot house is a glorious 
clock-bird, with its tail like a 
pendulum ; the blue-eyed cockatoo 
which is in the picture, and the 
little green parrakeet which says, 
" Pretty Poll ! steady ! " Then 
here is a big grey parrot, the best 
talker of all, but who was so 
crushed by the continual noise of 
the others that she never speaks 
two cockatoos in white are familiar 
of the artist. Mr. Marks kneels 

Original Tram 


down far a moment, and pretends to draw, 
and one of the cockatoos comes down and 
looks over his paper. Whatever part of the 
cage he goes to, they will follow him round. 
The eagles are just the same. When we 
reached the eagle cages the tawny eagle was 
attracted by the drawing-paper and pencil 
Mr. Marks carried, and came down to 
watch. One day the artist put his water 
bottle too near the cage, and the bird came 
down and knocked it over. 

Then Mr. Marks sees a little ground 
penguin from New Zealand, which has not 
been there long. It is hard to get him 
away from this, but he departs at last, 
saying, " I must come again and make a 
sketch of him." 

" Yes,' 1 said Mr. Marks, " I love the Zoo 
and the inhabitants thereof ; some of my 
happiest hours have been spent here. I 
feel at home with the birds, and I am led 
to believe they feel at home with me. 
Sketching in the Zoo is very difficult. You 
start here at nine in the morning, and you 
can sketch up to eleven quite free from 
visitors. Then, I can tell you, I do have to 
pas* through something. All the people 

get round and watch you. For some time 
past I have tried to assume the character of 
the testy old gentleman, but it has been a 
failure. I had one man ask me once 
whether I hypnotised the birds ; and a very 
inquisitive little girl who had bothered me 
for some days once approached me and 
asked, b Do they always keep still?' That 
inquisitive little girl, I am afraid, was 
rather crushed when I turned to her and 
said, ' Do jwtt always keep still ? ' " 

Just then we got to the gates, and I was 
bidding good-bye to Mr. Marks, when he 
said, "I had a very nasty knock given me 
one morning in the Zoo. I must not men- 
tion in which house it was, as the old 
keeper is there still. I had been sketching 
there one Saturday, and was just packing 
up my various things thinking of going, 
when he turned to me, and said, ' You 
are not going to wait to do any more then , 
sir ? ' I said, ' No, I am going to town 
this afternoon, just for a little trip, you 
know ! ' ' Oh, yes, sir, of course. I have 
heard as most tradespeople like to take their 
half-holiday on Saturday.' rt 

Harky How. 


Original from 

Quarantine Island. 
Bv Walter Bksaxt. 


51 0, 11 he cried, passionately. 
'You drew me on: you 
led me to believe that you 
cared for me : you encour- 
aged me. What ? Can a 
girl go on as you have done 
without meaning anything ? Does a girl 
allow a man to press her hand — to keep 
her hand— without meaning anything ? 
Unless these things mean nothing, you are 
the most heartless girl in the whole world ; 
yes — I say the coldest, the most treacherous, 
the most heartless ! " It was evening, and 
moonlight, a soft and delicious night in 
September. The waves lapped gently at 
their feet, the warm breeze played upon 
their faces, the moon shone upon them — 
an evening wholly unfit for such a royal 
rage, as this young gentleman — two and 
twenty is still young — exhibited. He 

She sat on one of the seaside benches, 
her hands clasped, her head bent. He went 
on — he recalled the day when first they 
met, he reminded her of the many, many 
ways in which she had led him on to believe 
that she cared for him, he accused her of 
making him love her in order to laugh at 
him. When he could find nothing more 
to say he flung himself upon the bench, but 
on the other end of it, and crossed his arms, 
and dropped his head upon them. So that 
there were two on the bench : one at either 
end, and both with their heads dropped — 
a pretty picture, in the moonlight, of a 
lovers' quarrel. But this was worse than a 
lovers' quarrel. It was the end of every- 
thing, for the girl was engaged to another 

She rose. If he had been looking up he 
would have seen that there were tears in 
her eyes, and on her cheek. 

walked about on the parade, which was 
deserted, except for this solitary pair, gesticu- 
lating, waving his arms, mad with the 
madness of wounded love. 

" Mr. Fernie," she stammered, timidly, 

" I suppose there is nothing more to say, I 

am, no doubt, all that you have called me. 

I am heartless. I have led you oa. Well 

Original from J 



— but I did not know — how could I tell 
that you were taking things so seriously ? 
How can you be so angry just because I can't 
marry you ? One girl is no better than 
another. There are plenty of girls in the 
world. I thought you liked me, and, I — 
but what is the use of talking? I am heart- 
less and cold. I am treacherous, and vain, 
and cruel, and — and — won't you shake 
hands with me once more, Claude, before 
we part ? " 

" No, I will never shake hands with you 
again ; never — never. By Heavens ! no- 
thing that could happen now would ever 
make me shake hands with you again. I 
hate you, I loathe you, I shudder at the 
sight of you, I could not forgive you — 
never. You have ruined my life. Shake 
hands with you ! Who but a heartless and 
worthless woman could propoee such a 
thing ? " 

She shivered and shook at his wild words. 
She could not, as she said, understand the 
vehemence of the passion that held the 
man. He was more than half mad, 
and she was only half sorry. Forgive the 
girl. She was only seventeen, just fresh 
from her governess. She was quite inno- 
cent and ignorant. She knew nothing 
about the reality and the vehemence of 
passion ; she thought that they had been 
very happy together. Claude, to be sure, 
was ridiculously fond of taking her hand ; 
once he kissed her head to show the depth 
of his friendship ; he was such a good com- 
panion ; they had had such a pleasant time ; 
it was a dreadful pity that he should be 
so angry. Besides, it was not as if she 
liked the other man, who was old and 

" Good-bye, then, Claude," she said. 
" Perhaps, when we meet again, you will be 
more ready to forgive me. Oh ! " she laughed, 
"it is so silly that a man like you, a great, 
strong, clever, handsome man, should be so 
foolish over a girl. Besides, you ought to 
know that a girl can't have things her own 
way always. Good-bye, Claude, won't you 
shake hands ? " She laid her hand upon 
his shoulder ; just touched it ; turned — and 
fled. n 

She had not far to go. The villa where 
she lived was within five minutes' walk. 
She ran in and found her mother alone in 
the drawing-room. 

" My dear," the mother said irritably, " I 
wish to goodness you wouldn't run out 
after dinner. Where have you been ? " 

" Only into the garden, and to look at 
the sea/' 

" There's Sir William in the dining- 
room still." 

" Let him stay there, mother dear. He'll 
drink up all the wine and go to sleep, 
perhaps, and then we shall be rid of him." 

" Go in, Florence, and bring him out. 
It isn't good for him, at his age, to drink so 

" Let the servants go," the girl replied, 

"My dear — your own accepted lover. 
Have you no right feeling ? Oh ! Florence, 
and when I am so ill, and you know — I told 

you " 

" A woman should not marry her grand- 
father. I've had more than enough of him 
to-day already. You made me promise to 
marry him. Until I do marry him he may 
amuse himself. As soon as we are married, 
I shall fill up all the decanters, and keep 
them full, and encourage him to drink as 
much as ever he possibly can." 
" My dear, are you mad ? " 
" Oh ! no ; I believe I have only just come 
to my senses Mad ? No. I have been 
mad. Now, when it is too late, I am sane. 
When it is too late — when I have just 
understood what I have done." 

" Nonsense, child ! What do you mean 
by being too late ? Besides, you are doing 
what every girl does. You have accepted the 
hand of an old man who can give you a fine 
position, and a great income, and every kind 
of luxury. What more can the girl desire ? 
When I die — you know already — there will 
be nothing — nothing at all for you. 
Marriage is your only chance." 

At this moment the door opened, and 
Sir William himself appeared. He was 
not, although a man so rich and therefore 
so desirable, quite a nice old man to look 
at ; not quite such an old man as a girl 
would fall in love with at first sight ; 
but, perhaps, under the surface there lay 
unsuspected virtues by the dozen. He was 
short and fat ; his hair was white ; his face 
was red ; he had great white eyebrows ; 
he had thick lips ; his eyes rolled unsteadily, 
and his shoulders lurched ; he had taken 
more wine than is good for a man of 

He held out both hands and lurched 
forwards. " Florenshe," he said, thickly, 
''let's sit down together somewhere. 
Letsh talk, my dear." 

The girl slipped from the proffered hands 
and fled from the room. 




" Whatsh matter with the girl ? " said Sir 


Out at sea — all by itself — somewhere 
about thirty miles from a certain good-sized 
island in a certain ocean, there lies another 
little island — an eyot — a mile long and half 
a mile broad. It is a coral islet. The coral 
reef stretches out all round it, except in 
one or two places where the rock shelves 
suddenly, making it possible for a ship to 
anchor there. The islet is flat, but all 
round it runs a kind of natural sea wall, 
about ten feet high and as many broad ; 
behind it, on the side which the wall pro- 
tects from the wind, is a little grove of 
low, stunted trees, the name of which the 
successive tenants of the island have never 
been curious to ascertain. The area protected 
by the sea wall, as low as the sea level, was 
covered all over with long, rank grass. At 
the north end of the islet a curious round 
rock, exactly like a martello tower, but 
rather higher, rose out of the water, 
separated from the sea wall by twenty or 
thirty feet of deep water, dark blue, trans 

parent ; sometimes rolling and rushing and 
tearing at the sides of the rock, sometimes 
gently lifting the sea-weed that clung to the 
sides.. Round the top of the rock flew, 
screaming, all the year round, the sea birds. 
Far away on the horizon, like a blue cloud, 
one could see land ; it was the larger island 
to which this place belonged. At the south 
end was a lighthouse, built just like all 
lighthouses, with low, white buildings at 
its foot, and a flagstaff, and an enclosure, 
which was a feeble attempt at a flower 
garden. Half a mile from the lighthouse, 
where the sea wall broadened into a wide 
level space, there was a wooden house of 
four rooms — dining-room, salon, and 
two bedrooms. It was a low house, pro- 
vided with a verandah on either side. The 
windows had no glass in them, but thick 
shutters in case of hurricanes. There were 
doors to the rooms, but they were never 
shut. Nothing was shut, or locked up, or 
protected. On the inner, or land, side there 
was a garden in which roses — a small red 
rose — grew in quantities, and a few English 
flowers. The Elephant Creeper, wi(h 
its immense leaves, clambered up the 


I2 4 


verandah poles and over the roof. There 
was a small plot of ground planted with 
pine apples, and a solitary banana tree stood 
under the protection of the house, its 
leaves blown to shreds, its head bowed down. 

Beyond the garden was a collection of 
three or four huts, where lived the Indian 
servants and their families. 

The residents of this retreat — this secluded 
earthly paradise — were these Indian servants 
with their wives and children ; the three 
lighthouse men, who messed together ; and 
the captain, governor, or commander-in- 
chief, who lived in the house all by himself, 
because he had no wife or family. 

Now the remarkable thing about this 
Island is that, although it is so far from any 
other inhabited place, and although it is so 
small, the human occupants number many 
thousands. With the exception of the 
people above-named, these thousands want 
nothing : neither the light of the day nor 
the warmth of the sun ; neither food nor 
drink. They lie side by side under the 
rank grass, without headstones or even 
graves to mark their place ; without a 
register or record of their departure ; 
without even coffins! There they lie — sailors, 
soldiers, coolies, negroes — forgotten and 
lost, as much as if they had never been 
born. " And if their work lives after them, 
nobody knows what that work is. They 
belong to the vast army of the Anonymous. 
Poor Anonymous ! They do all the work. 
They grow our corn and breed our sheep ; 
they make and mend for us ; they build up 
our lives for us. We never know them, 
nor thank them, nor think of them. All 
over the world, they work for their far-off 
brethren ; and when one dies, we know 
not, because another takes his place. And 
at the last a mound of green grass, or even 
nothing but an undistinguished strip of 
ground ! 

Here lay, side by side, the Anonymous — 
thousands of them. Did I say they were 
forgotten ? Not quite ; they are remem- 
bered by the Indian women who live there. 
At sunset they and their children retreat to 
their huts, and stay in them till sunrise 
next morning. They dare not so much as 
look outside the door, because the place 
is crowded with white, shivering, sheeted 
ghosts ! Speak to one of these women : 
she will point out to you, trembling, one 
— two— half a dozen ghosts. It is true 
that the dull eye of the Englishman can 
see nothing. She: sees them — distinguishes 
them one from the other. She can see 

them every night ; yet she can never 
overcome her terror. The Governor, or 
Captain, or Commander-in-Chief, for his 
part, sees nothing. He sleeps in his house 
quite alone, with his cat and his dog, win- 
dows and doors wide open, and has no fear 
of any ghosts. If he felt any fear, of course, 
he would be surrounded and pestered to 
death every night with multitudes of ghosts. 
But he fears nothing. He is a doctor, you 
see ; and no doctor ever yet was afraid of 

How did they come here — this regi- 
ment of dead men ? In several ways. 
Cholera accounts for most ; yellow fever for 
some ; other fevers for some ; but for most 
cholera has been the destroyer. Because, 
you see, this is Quarantine Island. If a 
ship has cholera or any other infectious 
disease on board, it cannot touch at the 
island close by, which is a great place for 
trade, and has every year a quantity of 
ships calling ; the infected ship has to 
betake herself to Quarantine Island, where 
her people are landed, and where they stay 
until she has a clear bill ; and that, some- 
times, is not until the greater part of her 
people have changed their berths on board 
tor permanent lodgings ashore. Now you 
understand. The place is a great cemetery. 
It lies under the hot sun of the tropics. 
The sky is always blue ; the sun is always 
hot. It is girdled by the sea. It is always 
silent, for the Indian children do not laugh 
or shout, and the Indian women are too 
much awed by the presence of the dead to 
wrangle — always silent, save for the crying 
of the sea-birds on the rock. There are 
no letters, no newspapers, no friends, no 
duties — none, save when a ship puts in, and 
then, for the doctor, farewell rest, farewell 
sleep, until the bill of health is clean. Once 
a fortnight or so, if the weather permits, 
and if the communications are open — that 
is, if there is no ship there — a boat arrives 
from the big island with rations, and letters, 
and supplies. Sometimes a visitor comes, 
but not often, because, should an infected 
ship put in, he would have to stay as long 
as the ship. A quiet, peaceful, monotonous 
life for one who is weary of the world, or 
for a hermit ; and as good as the top of a 
pillar for silence and for meditation. 

The islet lay all night long in much the 
same silence which lapped and wrapped it 
all the day. The water washed musically 
upon the shore : the light in the lighthouse 



flashed at intervals— there was no other sign 
of life. Towards six *»"clock in the morning 
the dark east grew grey ; thin, long, white 
rays shot out across the sky, and then the 
light began to spread. Before the grey 
turned to pink, or the pink to crimson ; 
before there was any corresponding glow in 
the western sky, the man who occupied the 
bungalow turned oat of bed, and came forth 
to the verandah clad in the silk pyjamas 
and silk jacket, which formed the evening, 
or dress suit, in which he slept. The in- 
creasing light showed that he was a young 
man still, perhaps about thirty— ^a young 
man with a strong and resolute face, and a 
square forehead. He stood under the veran- 
dah watching, as he had done every day for 
two years and more, the break of day and 

and came out again clad in a rough suit of 
tweeds and a helmet. His servant was 
waiting for him with his morning tea. He 
drank it, and sallied forth. By this time 
the shortlived splendour of the East was 
fast broadening to right and left, until it 
stretched from pole to pole. Suddenly the 
sun leaped up. and the colours fled and the 
splendour vanished, The sky became all 
over a deep, clear blue, and round and 
about the sun was a brightness which no 
eye but that of the sea bird can face and 
live. The man in the helmet turned to the 
seashore, and walked briskly along the sea 
wall. Now and then he stepped down upon 
the white coral sand, picked up a shell, 
looked at it, and threw it away. When he 
came to the Sea Birds' Rock he sat down, 

the sunrise. He drank in the delicious 
breeze, cooled by a thousand miles and more 
of ocean. No one knows the freshness and 
sweetness of the air until he has so stood in 
the open and watched the dawn of a day in 
the tropics. He went back to the, hou-e 

and watched it. In the deep water below 
sea snakes, red and purple and grexn, were 
playing about ; great blue fish rolled lazily 
round and round the rock ; in the recesses 
lurked unseen the great conger etl, which 
dreads nothing but the Thing of long and 




horny tentacles, the ourite or squid, the 
humorous tazar which bites the bathers in 
shallow waters all for fun and mischief, and 
with no desire at all to eat their flesh ; and 
a thousand curious creatures, which this 
man, who had trained his eyes by days and 
days of watching, came here every day to 
look at. While he stood there the sea birds 
took no manner of notice of him, flying 
close about him, lighting on the shore close 
at his feet. They were intelligent enough 
to know that he was only dangerous with a 
gun in his hand. Presently he got up, and 
continued his walk. All round the sea wall 
of the island measures three miles. He took 
this walk every morning and every evening 
in the early cool and the late. The rest of 
the time he spent indoors. 

When he got back it was past seven, and 
the day was growing hot. He took his 
towels, went down to the shore, to a place 
where the coral reef receded, leaving a 
channel out to the open. The channel 
swarmed with sharks, but he bathed there 
every morning, keeping in the shallow water 
while the creatures watched him from the 
depths beyond with longing eyes. He wore a 
pair of slippers, on account of the laf, which 
is a very pretty little fish indeed to look at, 
but he lurks in dark places near the shore, 
and he is too lazy to get out of the way, and 
if you put your foot near him, he sticks out 
his dorsal fin, which is prickly and poisoned, 
and when a man gets that into the sole of 
his foot, he goes home and cuts his leg 
off, and has to pretend that he lost it in 
action. But the laf only chuckles. 

When he had bathed, the Doctor went 
back to his house, and performed some 
simple additions to his toilette. That is to 
say, he washed the salt water out of his 
hair and beard — not much else. As to 
collars, neckties, braces, waistcoats, black 
coats, rings, or any such gewgaws, they 
were not wanted on this island. Nor are 
watches and clocks ; the residents go by 
the sun. The doctor got up at daybreak, 
and took his walk, as you have seen, and 
his bath. He was then ready for his break- 
fast, and for a solid meal, in which fresh 
fish, newly caught that morning, and cur- 
ried chicken, with claret and water, formed 
the principal part. A cup of coffee came 
after, with a cigar and a book on the 
verandah. By this time the sun was high, 
and the glare of forenoon had succeeded 
the coolness of the dawn. After the cigar 
the doctor went indoors. The room was 
furnished with a few pictures, a large book- 

case full of books, chiefly medical, a table 
covered with papers, and two or three 
chairs. No curtains, carpets, or blinds ; 
the doors and windows wide" open to the 
verandah on both sides. 

He sat down and began writing— perhaps 
he was writing a novel. I think no one 
would think of a more secluded place for 
writing a novel. Perhaps he was doing 
something scientific. He continued writing 
till past midday. When he felt hungry he 
went into the dining-room, took a biscuit 
or two and a glass of vermouth. Then, 
because it was now the hour for repose, and 
because the air outside was hot, and the 
sea breeze had dropped to a dead calm, and 
the sun was like a red-hot glaring furnace 
over head, the Doctor kicked off his boots, 
and threw off his coat, lay down on a grass 
mat under the mosquito curtain, and 
instantly fell fast asleep. About five o'clock 
he awoke, and got up ; the heat of the day 
was over ; he took a long draught of cold tea, 
which is the most refreshing and the coolest 
drink in the world. The sun was now get- 
ting low, and the air was growing cool. He 
put on his helmet, and set off again to walk 
round his domain. This done, he bathed 
again. Then he went home as the sun 
sank, and night fell instantly without the 
intervention of twilight. They served him 
dinner, which was like his breakfast, but for 
the addition of some cutlets. He took his 
coffee, he took a pipe — two pipes, slowly, 
with a book — he took a whisky and soda — 
and hewenttobed. Ihavesaid that hehadno 
watch — it hung idly on a nail — therefore he 
knew not the time, but it would very likely 
be about half-past nine. However that 
might be, he was the last person up in this 
ghostly Island of the Anonymous Dead. 

This doctor, Captain-General and Com- 
mandant of Quarantine Island, was none 
other than the young man who began this his- 
tory with a row royal and a kingly rage. You 
think, perhaps, that he had turned hermit 
in the bitterness of his wrath, and for the 
faults of one simple girl had resolved on the 
life of a solitary. Nothing of the kind. He 
was an army doctor, and he left the service 
in order to take this very eligible appoint- 
ment, where one lived free, and could spend 
nothing except a little for claret. He pro- 
posed to stay there for a few years in order 
to make a little money, by means of which 
he might become a specialist. This was his 
ambition. As for that love business, seven 
years past, he had clean forgotten it, girl 
and all. Perhaps there had been other 




tender parages. Shall a man, wasting in 
despair, die because a girl throws him over ? 
Never ! Let him straightway forget her. 
Let him tackle his work, let him put off 
the business of love — which can always 
wait — until he can approach it once more 
in the proper spirit of illusion, and once 
more f;ill to worshipping an angel. 

Neither nature nor civilisation ever 
designed a man's life to be spent in mono- 
tony. Most of us have to work for 
our daily bread, which is always an 
episode, and sometimes a pretty dismal 
episode, to break and mark the day. 
One day there came such a break in the 
monotonous round of the Doctor's life. It 
came in the shape of a ship. She was a 
large steamer, and she steamed slowly. 

It was early in the morning, before 
breakfast. The Doctor and one of the light- 
house men stood on the landing-place 
watching her. 

" She's in quarantine, Doctor, 
sure as sure," said the man. " I 
wonder what's she's got. Fever, 
for choice. Cholera, more likely. 
Well, we take our chance." 

" She'.> been in bad weather/' 
said the Doctor, looking at her 
through his glas-;. "Look, she's 
lost her mizen, and her bows are 
stove in. I wonder what's the 
meaning of it. She's a transport." 
She drew nearer. " Troops ! 
Well, I'd rather have soldiers than 

She was a transport. She was 
full of soldiers, time-expired men 
and invalids going home. She was 
bound from Calcutta to Ports- 
mouth. She had met with a cy- 
clone ; driven out of her course 
and battered, she was making for 
the nearest port, when cholera 
broke out on board. 

Before nightfall the island was 
dotted with white tents ; a hospital 
was rigged up with the help or the 
ship's spars and canvas. The men 
were all ashore, and the Quaran- 
tine Doctor wtth the ship's doctor 
was hard at work among the cases, 
and the men were dropping in 
every direction. 

Among the passengers were a 
dozen ladies and some children. 
The Doctor save up his hnwe to 


them, and retired to a tent, or to the 
lighthouse, or anywhere to sleep. Much 
sleep could not be expected for some 
time to come. He saw the boat land 
with the ladies on board ; he took ofl 
his hat as they walked past. There were 
old ladies, middle-aged ladies, young ladie=. 
Well, there always is this combination. 
Then hj went on with his work. But he 
had a curious sensation, as if something of 
the past had been revived in his mind. It 
is, however, not an uncommon feeling. And 
one of the ladies changed colour when she 
saw him. 

Then began the struggle for life. No 
more monotony in Quarantine Island. 
Right and loft, all daylong, the men fell 
one after the other ; day after day more men 
fell, more men died. The two doctors 
quickly organised their staff. The ship's 
officers became clinical clerks, some of the 
ladies became nurses. And the men, the rough 
soldiers, sat about in their tents with pah- 
faces, expecting. Of those ladies who worked 

"SHE WA5(^igtflfthfrdW *'GHT. 




there was one — a nurse — who never seemed 
weary, never wanted rest, never asked for 
relief. She was at work all day and all night in 
the hospital ; if she went out it was only to 
cheer up the men outside. The doctor was 
but conscious of her work and of her presence, 
he never spoke to her ; when he came to 
the hospital another nurse received him ; 
if he passed her she seemed always to turn 
away. At a less troubled time he would 
have observed this. At times he felt again 
that odd sensation of a recovered past, but 
he regarded it not — he had other things to 
consider. There is no time more terrible 
for the courage of the stoutest man than a 
time of cholera on board ship or in a little 
place whence there is no escape ; no time 
worse for a physician than one when his 
science is mocked and his skill avails no- 
thing. Day after day the doctor fought 
from morning till night and far on to the 
morning again ; day after day new graves 
were dug ; day after day the chaplain read 
over the new-made graves the service of the 
dead for the gallant lads who thus died, in- 
glorious, for their country. 

There came a time, at last, when the con- 
queror seemed tired of conquest. He 
ceased to strike. The fury of the disease 
spent itself; the cases happened singly, 
one or two a day, instead of ten or twenty ; 
the sick began to recover, they began to 
look about them. The single cases ceased ; 
the pestilence was stayed ; and they sat 
down to count the cost. There had been on 
board the transport three hundred and 
seventy-five men, thirty- two officers, half a 
dozen ladies, a few children, and the ship's 
crew. Twelve officers, two of the ladies, 
and a hundred men had perished when the 
plague abated. 

" One of your nurses is ill, Doctor." 

" Not cholera, I do hope." 

" No, I believe a kind of collapse. She is 
at the bungalow. I told them I would send 
you over." 

" I will go at once." 

He left a few directions and walked 
over tt> the house. It was, he found, the 
nurse who had been of all the most useful 
and the most active. She was now lying 
hot and feverish, her mind wandering, in- 
clined to ramble in her talk. He laid his 
hand upon her temples ; he felt her pulse, 
he looked upon her face ; the odd feeling of 
something familiar struck him again. " I 
don't think it is very much," he said. 
" A little fever. She may have been in 
the sun ; she has been working too hard ; 

her strength has given way." He still held 
her wrist. 

" Claude," murmured the sick girl, "you 
are very cruel. I didn't know — and a girl 
cannot always have her own way." 

Then he recognised her. 

" Good Heavens ! " he cried, " it is 
Florence ! " 

" Not always have her own way," she 
repeated. " If I could have my own way, 
do you think I would ? " 

"Florence," he said again, "and I did 
not even recognise her. Strange ! " 

Another of the ladies, the Colonel's wife, 
was standing beside him. 

" You know her, Doctor ? " 

" I knew her a long time ago — some years 
ago— before she married." 

" Married ? Florence is not married. 
You must be thinking of someone else." 

" No. This is Florence Vernon, is it not ? 
Yes. Then she was formerly engaged to 
marry a certain Sir William Duport." 

" Oh ! I believe there was some talk about 
an old man who wanted to marry her. But 
she wouldn't have him. It was just before 
her mother died. Did you know her 
mother ? " 

"I knew her mother a little when they 
were living at Eastbourne. So she refused 
' the old man, did she ? and has remained un- 
married. Curious ! I had almost forgotten 
her. The sight of her brings back the old 
days. Well, after she has pulled so gal- 
lantly through the cholera, we cannot have 
her beaten by a little fever. Refused the 
old man, did she ?" 

In the dead of night he sat watching 
by the bedside, the Colonel's wife with 

" I had almost forgotten," whispered the 
lady, " that story of the old baronet. She 
told me about it once. Her mother was ill 
and anxious about her daughter, because 
she had next to nothing, except an annuity. 
The old man offered ; he was an unpleasant 
old man ; but there was a fine house and 
everything ; it was all arranged. The girl 
was quite a child, and understood nothing. 
She was to be sold, in fact, to this old 
person, who ought to have been thinking 
of his latter end, instead of a pretty girl. 
Then the mother died suddenly, and the 
girl broke it off. She was a clever girl, and 
she has been teaching. For the last three 
years she has been in India, now she is 
going home under my charge. She is a 
brave girl, Doctor, and a good girl. She 
has received half a dozen offers, but she 



has refused them all. So I think there 
must be somebody at home, 

" Claude," murmured the girl, wander- 
ing, " I never thought you would care so 
much. If I had thought so, I would not 
have encouraged you. Indeed, indeed, I 
would not. I thought we were only 
amusing ourselves," 

'' Claude is a pretty name. What is your 
own Christian name, Doctor ?" asked the 
Colonel's wife, curiously. 

" It is — in fact — it is— Claude," he re- 
plied blushing ; but there was not enough 
light to see his blushes. 

li Dear me !" said the Colonel's wife. 

A few days later the patient, able to sit 
for a while in the shade of the verandah, 
was lying in a long cane chair. Beside her 
sat the Colonel's wife, who had nursed her 
through the attack. She was reading aloud 
to her. Suddenly she stopped. " Here 
comes the doctor,'" she said, "and, Florence, 

a pretty room to look at. In the twilight 
the fragile figure, pale, thin, dressed in 
white, would have lent interest even to a 
>tranger. To the doctor I suppose it was 
only a ** case.'' He pushed the blinds aside 
and stepped in, strong, big, masterful. 
"You are much better, 11 he said; "you 
will very soon be able to walk about. 
Only be careful for a few days. It was 
lucky that the attack came when it did, 
and not a little earlier, when we were in 
the thick of the trouble. Well, you won't 
want me much longer, I believe." 

"No, thank you," she murmured, with- 
out raising her eyes. 

"I have had no opportunity," he said, 
standing over her, "of explaining that I 
really did not know who you were, Miss 
Vernon. Somehow, I didn't see your face, 
or I was thinking of other things ; I sup- 
pose you had forgotten me ; anyhow, it 
was not until the other day, when I was 
called in, that I remembered. But 1 dare- 
say you have forgotten me," 


my dear, his name, you know, is Claude. 
I think you have got something to talk 
about wi'th Claude besides the symptoms." 
With the;e wurds she laughed, nodded her 
head, and ran into the salon. 

The verandah, with its green blinds of 
cane hanging down, and its malting on I he 
f!<>or, and its easy-chairs and tables, made 

" No ; 1 have not forgotten." 

" I thought that lung ago you had 
become Lady Duport." 

" Xo, that did not take place." 

" I hear that you have been teaching 
since your mother's death. Do you like 
it ? " 

"Yes, CHkfrfeJ'rram 



" Do you remember the last time we 
met — on the seashore — do you remember, 
Florence ? " His voice softened suddenly. 
" We had a. quarrel about that old villain 
— do you remember ? " 

" I thought you had forgotten such a little 
thing as that long ago, and the girl you 
quarrelled with. 1 ' 

" The point is rather whether you 
remember. That is of much more import- 

" I remember that you swore that you 
would never forgive a worthless girl who 
had ruined your life. Did I ruin your life, 
Dr. Fernie ? " 

He laughed. He could not honestly say 
that she had. In fact, his life, so far as 
concerned his work, had gone on much 
about the same. But, then, such a man 
does not allow love to interfere with his 

" And then you went and threw over the 
old man. Florence, why didn't you tell me 
that you were going to do that ? You might 
have told me." 

She shook her head. "Until you fell 
into such a rage, and called me such dread- 
ful names, [ did not understand." 

" Why didn't you tell me. Florence ? " he 

She shook her head again. 

" You were only a little innocent, 
ignorant child then," he said ; " of course 
you could not understand. I was an ass 
and a brute and a fool not to know" 

•' You said you would never forgive me 
You said you would never shake hands wnh 
me again." 

He held out his hand. "Since," he 
said, " you are not going to marry the old 
man, and since you are not engaged to any- 
body else, why — then — in that case — the 
old "state of things is still going on — and — 
and — Florence — but if you give me your 
hand, I shall keep it, mind." 

" Dear me," said the Colonel's wife, 
standing in the doorway. " Do Quarantine 
Doctors always kiss their patients ? But 
you told me, Doctor dear, that your Christian 
name was Claude. Didn't you ? That 
explains everything." 

The ship, with those of her company 
whom the plague had spared, presently 
steamed away, and, after being repaired, 
made her way to Portsmouth Dockyard. 
But one of her company stayed behind, and 
now is On -'en or Empress of the Island of 
which her husband is King, Captain, Com- 
mandant, and Governor-General, and 
resident Quarantine Doctor. 

Original from 


By J. Maclarkn Cobban 

O a splendid volume published 
recently in Paris, entitled 
fi Dogs and Cats," with many 
fine illustration* by Eugene 
Lambert, Alexander Dumas 
(the younger) contributed a 
delightful introduction. In that he casually 
remarks as follows \— 

" Yes, I love cats. How many times has 
it been said to me, ' What ! You love 
cats ? ' 

" ' Yes ! ' 

" ' You do not love dogs better ? ' 

" ' No ! I love cats better ! ' 

'* ' It is extraordinary ! ' " 

That sets forth with dramatic simplicity 
the wonder with which' most people hear 
expressed a fondness for cats, It is not 
that most people dislike cats ; that can 
scarcely be, for it is estimated that the 
household eat outnumbers the household 
dog in London alone in something like the 
proportion of four to one ; but that they are 
indifferent to them, or can't be bothered 
with them : and the reason of that, no 
doubt, is very much because the cat does 
uot lay itself out to win attention and 
affection as the dog does. The nature of 
the dog is open and simple ; he is demon- 
strative, obsequious and fawning, while the 
nature of the cat is secret and complex : 
he (or she) is quiet, independent, and 
reserved. It is easy to gain the affection of 
a dog, and difficult to lose it ; he will even 
lick the hand that beats him, and grovel to 
the human brute that despitefully uses him. 
On the other hand, it is difficult to win the 
affection of a cat, and easy to lose it ; the 
cat avoids the hand that beats it, and 
becomes shy, solitary, and terrified under 
ill-usage. It is not necessary to depreciate 
the dog and his admirable qualities in 
order to show that it is unfair to object to 
the cat because he is not as the dog. 
" The dog is frank, friendly, and faithful," 
say the exclusive lovers of the dog. Very 
well ; we admit it. H The cat is sly, wild, 
thievish, and treacherous," continue the 
dog-lovers. That we deny ; and one 
purpose of this paper is to show that those 
who will take the trouble to care for the 
cat and to understand it, will find it to be 
none of the things it is accused of being, 

and will, moreover, discover that there is a 
charm about it which is all its own. 

And, first of ail, it is necessary to point 
out that there are cats and cats. The 
common, ownerless cats of the farm and 
the country, of the back-garden and the 
tiles of town, the persecuted poacher, and 
the perturber of our midnight hours, no 
better represents the well-bred puss or 
fias/it of the hearthrug than the pariah cur 
of Eastern cities represents the domestic 
dog. There arc breeds of cats as there 
are of dogs. Many of these breeds are as 
beautiful and valuable in their way as the 
finest breeds of dogs. But those who take 
to cat-fancying must remember that — as in 
any animal -fancying — beauty and intelli- 
gence can only become markedly developed 
by taking pains. If you expect a cat to be 
a fine animal, you must treat it with care 
and kindness ; it must be fed regularly and 
sufficiently, and it must not be shut out of 
nights. There is a popular opinion, which 
is hard to kill, that the common domestic 
cat, at least, is an inveterate night-prowler 
— that he prefers being out of night?. It 
used to be said, similarly, that the negro 
liked being a slave. If the average cat has 




for generations been turned out of doors at 
bedtime — if it has been admitted within 
doors at all — his wakefulness at night must 
necessarily have become an inherited habit. 
But let him ha kindly treated, and regularly 
and properly fed, and he will soon abandon 
hi= nocturnal wandering He may desire 
to take a constitutional after supper, but he 
will return to go to bed respectably if he 
be not persistently excluded. Cats, how 
ever, have individuality, and even in this 
small matter there are some curious and 
perverse exceptions. I have a fine tabby 
who has a sentimental passion for being 
out of doors on a moonlight night. He 
has no disposition for concerts or flirta- 

tions ; he merely sits solitary upon a low 
parapet, in the shadow of an evergreen, and 
gauzes from the depth of his large, liquid 
eyes upon the moon. And the Kev. Harry 
Jones (in his H Holiday Papers ") tells of a 
cat of his whom he named "Sir Samuel 
Baker," because of his incorrigible fondness 
for miscellaneous travel and adventure by 
night as well as by day. " Sir Samuel 
one day— his master then had a living in 
the East-end of London— returned 
from the war-path in a grievous 
plight, with two holes in his pate. 
He had, it appeared, been stoned 
by rough boys and left 
for dead. His reverend 
ma iter received him 
kindly, and, to revive his 
sinking life, gave htm a 
M stiff glass " of brandy 
and water, and plugged 

up the holes and bandaged the wounds, till 
his head looked as big as a cucoanut. 
Scarcely was this assuagement of hi- woes 
accomplished when " Sir Samuel " set off 
"on the loose" again, and remained Irom 
home for ten days. At the end of that 
time, to the astonishment and admiration 
of all, he returned with his bandages 
complete, and his wounds healed ! 

Until recent years the cat in this country 
was valued generally — when he was eared 
for at all — merely as a creature supplied by 
Providence for the destruction of rats and 
mice, and even of cockroaches. But in the 
ancient world, and notably in Egypt 
(whence, it is said, the domestic cat 
originally came), the cat was much regarded 
for its beauty, and its serene and sphinx- 
like quiet. It entered into various religious 
and mythological symbols in both Egypt 
and Rome. This lofty and worshipful 
regard of the cat in the ancient world sank 
gradually to the merely utilitarian view 
which was mostly in vogue in the modern 
world, until the wider diffusion of kindli- 
ness towards all animals, and the more 
intelligent appreciation of their natures, 
raised the cat again, not in superstitious 
esteem, but in fond consideration as a house- 
hold pet. There would seem to be a common 
notion that the more a cat is petted and 
cared for, the less useful it becomes as a 
hunter of mice and such " small deer." No 
notion could have less foundation in fact. 
Indeed, the truth rather is that the better 
fed a cat is, the better is he (or she) as a 
inouser. Careful observation govs to show 
that the cat's native inclination is to hunt 
the mouse or the rat, not for food, but for 
" sport," and a cat that is well cared for is 
more likely to be successful as a sportsman 


than a hustled and hungry grimalkin, first, 
because it is more alert, and second, because 
k is cleaner ; a hungry and unhappy cat 
doc* not keep his coat clean, and the keen- 
nosed mouse can, therefore, easily sniff out 
his whereabouts. Now and again, how- 
ever, one hears of a well-fed cat that is fond 
of eating mice, but he is usually an old 
fellow — (like the " Mincing-lane cat "' of the 
Rev. J. G, Wood, the naturalist) — who in 
the course of a long career has acquired a 
taste for game. Mr. Wood's story 
is curious, as illustrating, not oniy 
the cat's taste, but also the cat's 
sense — a sense in this instance 
cliisely akin to reason. A cunning 
old black Tom, who had fur years 
been maintained in a set of wine 
cellars, took into partnership a 
spry young fellow. There would 
seem to have been a solemn league 
and covenant entered into between 
tliem. Tom Senior had suffered 
much in his inexperienced youth 
from collision with feet and wine 
cases in the devious passages of 
the cellar, and he taught Tom Junior 
the dodges of his maturity by which he 
avoided them. Moreover, lorn Senior, 
who had an epicurean taste for mice, and 
who had through the inactivity of age and 
the badness of his .teeth for some time 

Senior sat aloof and looked on while 
Junior consumed both shares of cat's-meat. 
It should be remembered also that not 
all cats have the instinct for mousing. A 
cat has been seen to stare in surprise when 
a mouse has boldly shot from its hole 
and whisked across her path ; many a cat 
when deprived of her kittens has been 
known to act as foster-mother to young mice 
or rats ; and not even the pangs' of hunger 
will make a mouser of a cat that has not 

seldom caught a mouse, clearly made a bar- 
gam with Tom Junior :— "If you, who are 
young and active, will catch mice for me, 
you shall have all the cat's-meat to your- 
self." At any rate, it was regularly observed 
that Junior steadily brought the mice he 
caught to Senior, who ate them, and that 

inherited the instinct of that form of sport 
—an instinct that seems to run in families— 
(like a taste for fox-hunting in human beings) 
rather than in particular breeds of cats. 

The true lover of cat^, however, does nut 
keep them or care for them because of their 
utility, but because 
of their beauty or 
rarity, their com- 
panionship or their 
intelligence. From 
their earliest days 
erf infancy cats of 
all varieties, are 
deeply interesting. 
The "young of all 
animals are engag- 
ing, but kittens, 
when they first 
start off open-eyed 
and free-limbed, 
are especially- 
amusing and de- 
lightful. The kit- 
ten, by contrast 
with other infants, 
is so graceful, so daring, so spontaneous, 
and withal so neat in its movement, that 
it has quite justly been taken as the perfect 
type and exemplar of gay, irresponsible, 
and bewitching childhood. To see a wide- 
eyed little downy creature dance up side- 
ways on LiU fours at its fellow- kit lei is, at a 



big dog, or even at a solemn human being 
with the cares of a lifetime on his brow, 
and invite it (or him) to " come on " and 
play, is surety one of the most charming 
visions of careless life and health. The 
kitten, moreover, needs neither creature 
nor cork to amuse itself with ; its passion 
for play is so great that it can be amused 
with absolutely nothing at all. A very 
observant and sensible school-boy once 
described (in an essay) this kittenish 
peculiarity thus : — " A kitten is an animal 
that is remarkable for rushing like mad 
at nothing whatever, and generally stop- 
ping before it gets there." Some people 
may think it is foolish and undignified to 
take pleasure in, and to laugh for a while 
at, the gambols of a mere kitten, but those 
who laugh and are unashamed have one or 
two great names to sustain them in coun- 
tenance. Cardinal Richelieu, it is said, 
always kept a number of kittens in his 
cabinet, and in the intervals of rest from his 
work he would divert himself by watching 
their pranks'. Another Cardinal and states- 
man, our own Cardinal Wolsey, was simi- 
larly fond of kittens. The poet Sou they 
has somewhere said that no household is 
complete without a baby rising six months, 
and a kitten rising six weeks. And it is 
well known that the graceful and fascina- 
ting actress who is as much identified with 
(he Lyceum Theatre as Mr. Henry Irving, is 
surrounded in her home by a whole tribe of 
cats and kittens, in whose society she takes 
much delight. 

In entire contrast with the incessant and 
irresponsible fro lie somen ess of the kitten is 
the staid demeanour and severe intelligence 
of the full-grown cat. No companionship 
can be more agreeable or less distracting to 
a sedentary worker— a writer, a tailor, or a 
shoemaker—than a handsome, healthy cat. 
My first cat was one of the most beautiful 

of her kind : she 
was of the variety 
which the people 
of Norfolk and of 
Lancashire used 
to call " Cali - 
manco." I called 
her (after one of 
Balzac"s heroines) 
Lu Ftllr anxycux 
(f'rr, 1L the girl 
with the golden 
eyes." She would 
wake me at the 
proper time in 
the morning by rattling at the handle of 
the door and mewing. She knew the hour 
of every meal, and would summon me from 
my study to come and eat. And while I 
was at work she would sit on the end of my 
writing-table and watch me, or "am into 
the street and consider passing horses, dogs, 
and butchers' boys. She was especially 
fond of sitting on a newspaper, or on a new 
open book — (for all the world as if she were 
a remorseless reviewer) — which tgave her 
the appearance of possessing something like 
literary tastes. Occasionally she would 
object to my assiduity in composition : she 
would walk across the table (taking care not 
to tread oxi manuscript), gently nibble the 
stalk of my pen, and rub her cheek against 
mine. Her favourite seat when she could 
get it was my leg, on which she would 
crouch full length with her chin mi my 
knee. If 1 insisted on removing her from 
that perch she would sit in offended dignity 
on the floor, deaf to all the blandishments 
and endearing terms I might lavish upon 
her ; and if I sought to stroke and caress 
her under these circumstances she would 
walk away. She was a born coquette. 
Though small, she was very beautiful both 
in shape and in colour, and I think she knew 
it. At any rate, the males of the neighbour- 
hood knew it, and they would beseech her in 
the humblest manner to bestow on them a 
gracious look or mew. I have seen her hold 
a levee in the garden of ten or a dozen love- 
lorn swains. She would pass daintily and 
coquettish ly before them, or listlessly sit 
facing them, looking round as if merely tc 
admire the view. Then, as if weary of it. 
she would stretch herself and step slowly 
away with a disdainful wave of her tail, 
while a plaintive and appealing wmo was 
wrung from the tortured heart of one or 
another of the scorned lovers. If one, under 
those circumstances, daring all, ventured to 




approach her, she would sit up like a 
squirrel, and with both fore-paws box his 
ears, while he sat rebuked and ashamed. 
As she grew older, and had children, she 
lust something of her beauty, but she ever 
had a gentle, tender, and courageous heart. 
She was fond of basking with her kittens 
00 a certain sunny balcony. One day I 
saw her thus lie, nursing her favourite son, 
when a poor, draggled, wayfaring puss 
appeared, and looked on with sympathy 
and approval. The look plainly said, 
" What a lovely child you have, madam ! 
Oh, if I might »nly embrace it ! " The 
proud mother, with a kindly " w-r-r !" en- 
couraged the strange female to approach ; 
and she crept near to lick the kitten. She 
had, however, no sooner touched him with 
her tongue, than he sat up and spat at her. 
The strange cat drew back, humbled with 
the repulse 1 but " La Fille M turned and 
boxed her offspring's ear^ for his incivility. 
That same son was white, with large blue 
eyes ; he grew to be a gigantic fellow, 
and was named " Don Pierrot," Moreover, 
he had a loud, ringing voice, which was all 
the louder that, being deaf — like almost all 
white cats — he never knew the pitch he 
used. In spite of his size, and his great 
voice, he had the heart of a mouse — (he 
was a gelding)— and fled from the meanest 
thing that ran upon legs. I have seen him, 
when dozing in the sun with one eye half- 
open, start up in horror at the approach of 
the insect (somewhat like a black-beetle) 
which children call "coach and horses." 
The insect paused upon " Don Pierrot's " 
movement, when the white Don curiously 
ventured to touch him with a paw. Upon 
that the insect reared its tail, according to its 

habit, and rushed towards him as with head- 
strong ferocity ; " Don Pierrot " withdrew 
a step in amazement at the little black 
demon's audacity, and as it continued to 
advance, he lifted away on*; foot after the 
other, till, coming to the conclusion that 
the little black demon was determined to 
kill him, possess htm, and eat him up, he 
fled wildly from the spot, and hid himself 
for the day. He was much persecuted by 
the tom-cats of the neighbourhood, at id by 
vagrant dogs— all the more painfully per- 
secuted that, because of his deafness, he 
seldom knew of thetr approach till they 
were upon him. But when they were upon 
him, he raised such a great and bitter cry 
— which re-emblcd nothing so much as 
" Mother ! " — that his assailant he|d back, 
and before there was time for a repetition 
of the attack, the little " mother " was out, 
with a tail as big as a fox's, clouting and 
scratching tom-cat or dog. 

I could tell more of " La Fille " and of 
other cats I have intimately known, but it 
will be doubtless more agreeable if I tell of 
notable cats whom others have known, and 
loved, and praised. Of such none is more 
remarkable than " Pret," the cat of a lady 
with whom the Rev. J. G. Wood had 
a correspondence. * : Pret " was of a fine 
breed. She had been brought when a 
kitten from France, She had a long 
tail and a soft chinchilla fur. '' PretV 
mistress fell ill of a nervous fever, and 
" Pret," though little more than a kitten, 
found her way to the sick-room and refused 
to leave it. She established herself as head 
nurse. If the human attendant slackened 
in her watch " Pret " did not ; day or night 
she knew, to ivithin live minutes, the pro- 


DF / 


t 3 6 


per times for physic or nutriment, and if 
the nurse still sbpt " Pret " 1 would mew, 
and, failing to wake her in that way, would 
give her a gentle bite on the nose. A 

"likting tiii; \..\\x.w, ■ 

notable point is that there was no striking 
clock in the house, so that "Pret "could 
not have been aided so in her remarkable 
reckoning of time. 

u Pret, 11 like many another cat, preferred 
birds to mice in the" way of sport, and of all 
birds she especially hunted sparrows, being 
apparently irritated by their incessant chirp. 
What is well-nigh incredible, however, 
even to those who have the greatest belief 
in the intelligence of cats, " Pret " (so says 
" Pret's " mistress) used to sit under a bush 
and decoy the sparrows within striking dis- 
tance by imitating their chirp ! The more 
reasonable explanation is 
that " Pret " had that 
eager manner much pro- 
nounced which almost all 
cats have in lying in wait 
for birds ; they twitter or 
chatter their teeth and 
emit a little sound which, ~-~^fj 
emphasised, might easily 
be taken for the chirp of 
a bird. 

There are countless 
stories of the intelligence 
and artfulness of the cat, 
but it is possible here tu 

recount only one or two of the most re- 
markable. It must be a very oppressed 
and stupid cat that cannot lift a latch, 
where latches can be lifted. But he is a 
clever cat who, failing the latch, has wit 
enough to pull the bell, One of the 
best stories of a cat and a bell is that told 
concerning a Carthusian monastery in 
Paris. The monks possessed and petted 
a fine cat of the Angora breed. This 
astute animal discovered that, when a 
certain bell rang, the cook left the kitchen 
to answer it, leaving the menks' dinners, 
portioned out in plates, on the kitchen 
table. Therefore, he devised a plan (it is 
impossible to avoid saying " devised '') by 
which he could often secure a portion with- 
out the cook's knowledge. He rang the 
hell, the handle of which hung outside the 
kitchen window, and then, when the cook 
had disappeared in answer to the summons, 
he leaped through the window and out 
again with his stolen food. 

It was some time before pussy's trick was 
discovered, while several innocent persons 
were suspected of the repeated thefts ; and 
when it was discovered, the monks, instead 
of punishing him, let him continue his 
nefarious career and charged visitors a small 
fee to see the trick performed— a condoning 
of crime which cannot have improved thit 
cat's morals. Some writers assert that cats 
of thievish propensity can readily be told 
by the length of their nose and their fashion 
Of seizing greedily what food is offered 
them, but there is little to bear that theory 
out. The most delicate, gently nurtured 
eat^ will sometimes steal — cat- that would 


take a morsel from the fingers with the 
finest politeness. Such a cat I have known, 
whose one weakness was a fondness for 
eggs. To get an egg she would adopt 
various ruses, a common one being to push 
aside with her paw the lit] of the dish in 
which eggs ate kept, lift an egg out 
with both paws, as a squirrel takes a 
nut, and drop it on the floor, whence 
she would lick it at her leisure. 
The sole prevention against a general 
inclination to thieve is to give the 
cat sufficient food. 

But of all cat stories I know, t ric- 
hest is one told by Theophile Gautier, 
who has written concerning cats with 
an understanding and a feeling un- 
surpassed. He kept many cats, a 
chief favourite among which was 
M Madame Theophile," a " red " cat, 
with a white breast, a pink nose, and 
blue eyes. " She slept," says he, 
"at the foot of my bed ; she sat on 
the arm of my ihair while I wrote ; 
she came down into the garden and 
gravely walked about with me ; she 



was present at all 
frequently inter- 
cepted a choice 
morsel on its 
way from my 
plate to my 
mouth. One 
day, a friend who 
was going away 
for a short time, 
brought me his ~ 
parrot to be- 
taken care of 
during his ab- 
sence. The bird, 
finding itself in 'this is * c, 

a strange place, 

climbed up to the top of its perch by the 
aid of its beak, and rolled its eves (a* 
yellow as the nails in my arm-chair) in a 
rather frightened manner, moving also the 
white membranes that formed its eyelids. 
1 Madame Theophtle ' had never seen a 
parrot before, and she regarded the creature 
with manifest surprise. While remaining 
as motionless as a cat-mummy from Egypt 
in its swath ing-bands, she fixed her eyes 
upon the bird with a look of profound 
meditation, summoning up all the notions 
of natural history that she had picked up 
in the yard, in the garden, and on the root. 
The shadow of her thoughts passed over 
her changing eyes, and one could plainly 

z.v. i 3? 

read in them the conclusion to which her 
scrutiny led :— ' Certainly this is a green 
chicken.' This result attained, the next 
proceeding of ' Madame Theophile ' was to 
jump off the table from which she had 
made her observations, and lay herself flat 
on the floor in a 
corner of the 
room, exactly in 
the attitude of a 
panther watch- 
| they come down 
to drink at a 
lake. The parrot 
followed the 
movements of 
the cat with 
feverish anxiety' ; 
it ruffled its 
feathers, rattled 
its chain, lifted 
one of its feet 
and shook the 
claws, and 
rubbed its beak 
against the edge 
of its trough. 
Instinct told it 
\ that the cat was 

i an enemy, and 

.-. '-',z meant mischief. 
\ - v The cat's eyes 
"I were now fixed 
__-''] upon the bird 
with fascinating 
intensity, and 
they said in per- 
fectly intelligible 
language, which 
the poor parrot 
en chicks*," distinctly under- 

stood : — * This 
chicken should be good to eat, although it 
is green.' We watched the scene with 
great interest, ready to interfere at need. 
'Madame Theophite 1 was creeping nearer 
und nearer, almost imperceptibly ; her 
pink nose quivered, her eyes were half 
closed, her contractile claws moved in and 
out of their velvet sheaths, slight thrills of 
pleasure ran along her back -bone at the 
idea of the meal she was about to make. 
Such novel and exotic food excited her 
appetite. In an instant her back took the 
shape of a bent bow, and with a vigorous 
and elastic bound she sprang upon the 

"The parrot, seeing its danger, said in a 


^Q^ ' - 



bass voice, as grave 
homme's own ;— 
' Have you break- 
fasted, Jacko ? ' 

u This utterance 
so terrified the cat 
that she sprang 
backwards. The 
blare of a trumpet, 
the crash and smash 
of a pile of plates 
flung to the ground, 
a pistol-shot fired off 
at her ear, could not 
have frightened her 
more thoroughly. 
All her ornitho- 
logical ideas were 

'"And on what ?' 
continued the par- 
rot. ' On sirloin ? " 

"Then might we, 
the spectators, read 

in the face of Ma- ■■ have v.n crb, 

dame Theophile : — 

'This is not a bird j it is a gentleman : it 
talks ! ' 

" The cat cast a glance at me which -was 
full of questioning, but, as my response was 
not satisfactory, she promptly hid herself 
under the bed, aurl from that refuge she 
could not be induced to stir during the 
whole of the da v." 

There is no doubt that the cat is, in our 
day, more petted, and praised, and bred, and 
shewed than ever it was before. To describe 
all the classified breeds and varieties, with 

and tail. 

their special points and markings, is impos- 
sible here ; those who desire to know these 
things in careful and exact detail should 
consult Harrison Weir'-- hook on cats. Of 

long-haired cats 
there are the An- 
gora, the Persian, 
the Russian, and 
what not j and of 
short-haired, more 
than I can here 
enumerate. Some 
people prefer a cat 
the rarer or the 
more curious it is, 
— abnormal and ex- 
otic varieties, like 
the Manx cat and 
the Japanese cat, 
which are tailless ; 
the Chinese cat, 
which has lop ears ; 
and the Royal Cat 
of Siam, wh ch is a 
singular - looking 
creature, usually 
chocolate and white, 
or dun and white in 
colour, and very 
short of fur, espe- 
cially on the legs 
But the true lover of cats must 
say of cats as the soldier said of ale, "All 
kinds are good, though most kinds arc 
better than others." 

Enough has heen said, 1 think, to show 
that the cat is worth attention and cultiva- 
tion, not only because of its beauty and 
intelligence, but also for its pecuniarv 
vaiue. The cat has long been misunder- 
stood and misrepresented. It has been 
accused of untameable ferocity, because 
when driven to the extreme of nervous 
dread, it has bitten and scratched ; it has 
bi:en accused of cunningly murdering babies 
in their cradles, because it has innocently 
tucked itself away with the baby in its fond- 
ues-, for warmth ; and it has been accused of 
lack of attachment, though quite as credible 
stories are told of the cat's faithfulness and 
fondness as of the dog's : cats as well as 
dogs have been known to pine and sicken 
and die after the loss of a beloved friend or 
master. It is no less agreeable to be able to 
write that human beings have also shown 
themselves ready to die to save their cats. 
Champfleury tells a story of a sailor-boy 
who would not leave a sinking ship without 
his cats. The ship was run into by another, 
and so much damage was done that the 
crew had to leave her in all haste. They 
were safe on board a passing vessel before 
the captain, looking round amon" his com- 


OF .' 




party, exclaimed, "Where is Michel, the 
apprentice ? " Michel was not to be found, 
and no one remembered his leaving the 
doomed ship. Michel had, indeed, been 
left behind. He had 
run to fetch from 
below the two ship's 
cats, which he was in 
the habit of feeding, 
and on returning on 
deck he had found his 
comrades gone. At 
first he wept, but soon 
he dried his eyes, 
lighted a lantern and 
hung it up, and then 
ran to the pump. All 
the night King, pump- 
ing and ringing the t 
ship's bell, he fought «m 
against destruction. 

Day came, and wore on. One, two ships 
he sighted, but he could not attract their 
attention. He shared his fond with the 
cats, and pumped to keep himself and them 
afloat. Thus three days passed, and Michel 
was at the last extremity of fatigue and 
despair, when a brig sighted him, and bore 
down to his relief. Even when a boat came, 
however, to take him off, he refused to leave 
the wreck without the cats for which he had 
endured mi much. And soon he was landed 
in his native port, carrying his two cats in 
his arms in triumph, amid the cheers of a 
crowd who had heard the story. Cats, 
moreover, protect property frequently as 
well as dogs. There are authentic stories 
told of cats flying at burglars, and aiding in 
the detection of murderer.-* ; and I myself 
had a cat that used to run to the door upon 
the appearance of a beggar, a tramp, or 
other disreputable-seeming person, mutter- 
ing and growling like a dog. But of all the 
false accusations brought against the cat 
none is more flagrantly false than that its 
only attachment is to a place or to the 
bare walls of its home. So little is that 
true, that many stories might be told of the 
weary and wonderful pilgrimages cats have 
gone to find their owners. A family in 
Scotland, for instance, removed across a 
frith, or long arm of the sea. The cat was 
somehow forgotten, but in a few days she 
appeared at the nvw house, foot-sore and 
thin. How had she found her way there ? 
The family had crossed in a boat, and the 
way by land was sixty miles round, over 
rocks and mountains ! Many have shown 
by abundant instances that the cat is at- 

tached to persons, but I think it has never 
before been pointed out that even those 
cats who are taken little notice of by their 
owners, and who therefore show little 
affection for them, 
are attached nor 
really to the mere 
house in which they 
have been used to 
dwell, but to the 
familiar furniture oi 
the house. Cats have 
a strong and cossets 
ing sense of smell, 
and it is well known 
in every house that 
they have their 
favourite chairs or 
sofa corners ; not only 
at. so, but, if they have 

had the run "of the 
house, they can tell over by scent every 
article of furniture which the house 
contains. A furniture-remover has told 
me that with some household goods 
which he has kept in warehouse for some 
years he brought away a white Persian. 
"She has never forsaken her familiar furni- 
ture ; she has always slept among it ; and 
has brought up several families about it. 
I have proved that to my own satisfaction 
oftener than once in removing from one 
house to another, and I believe all furni- 
ture-removers are convinced of its truth. 
When a removal is arranged for, let pussy 

be secured in a box or basket early, be- 
cause being such a nervous creature she 
nuv rice and hide out of reach, in terror of 
Qnginai Tram 




the bustle and clatter of the workmen. 
When the packing is over, either let her 
loose among the furniture in the van or put 
her into the van in her box or basket. But 
do not let her loose in the new house until 
some familiar article of furniture ha* been 
carried \\\ A chair which she has been in 
the habit of sitting on will be sufficient, 
She will probably at first run in terror round 
the strange room, sniffing at every corner ; 
then she will goto the chair, with a delicate 
sniff recognise it. and finally leap upon it 
and begin to lick herself in complete con- 

Long ages of neglect, ill-treatment, and 
absolute cruelty have passed, and " the 
harmless, necessary cat " is rapidly gaining 
in favour. There arc still many strong pre- 
judices, however, against admitting the cat 
to such familiar acquaintance and friendship 
as the dog enjoys. It comes pretty much 
to this, that you either love the cat or you 
do not love it. If you Inve it, the probability 
is that you incomparably prefer it to the dog. 

The cat, you have found, is less fussy, less 
boisterous than the dog ; it does not trot in 
and out of doors with muddy feet ; it does 
not leap upon you and deafen you with its 
barking to show its affection ; and it does 
not insist upon startling strangers or up- 
setting babies and handmaidens by thrusting 
a cold, wet nose of welcome into the hand, 
like John Peerybi ogle's dog in " The 
Cricket on the Hearth." Compared with 
the dog, the cat is one of Nature's own 
aristocrats ; and it is possible that the true 
implication of the proverb, " A cat may 
look at a king," is that the cat is of the 
king's serene and lofty quality. The 
noblest dog will sometimes put off his 
dignity, and play the common, vulgar fool ; 
the cat never. And while the dog is yo wring about nothing in particular, 
the cat sits impassive as Old Age- or Fate, 
and lets the world slide ; a reminder nf god- 
like indifference to a generation anxiously 
" going to and fro on the earth," restless as 

Original from 

The Story of a Game, 

From thr French ok Albert Drlpit. 

[Albert Delhi - , who was born in 184(5, is an American transformed into 1 Frenchman. His father, a 
rich tobacco merchant in New Orleans, sent him when a toy 10 the college of St. Barbe at Paris. His 
education finished, he was retailed to the United States, 10 learn his father's business ; but a few months were 
sufficient to convince him that literature had more attractions for him than tobacco. He returned to Paris, 
where he began to write with much success for various newspapers arid magazines. During (he l-'ranco- 
Prussian War, he, like so many other famous men of letters, fought with glory, and ivas rewarded with the 
rosette of the Legion of Honour. His poems, plays, and especially his novels, are well known. Short stories 
he does not greatly cultivate ; hut the following ij an excellent example- of his style ] 


E wore speaking in :i dub 
in Paris of the card -sharper 
who had just been executed, 
and each was relating his 
S "?| story : our friend Captain 

bSsi J _ alone said nothing, 

** Are you going to by the only one who 
does not furnish his share ? " I asked him. 

" So much the belter ! We are listen- 
ing, my dear fellow." 

The' Captain lit a cigarette and leaned 
against the mantelpiece of the salon. We 
drew up our chairs so as to hear better, 
with that curious avidity of men, who 
are, after all, only big children. Outside, a 
gay May sun was shining through the half- 
closed shutters. 

" Six years ago," said 
the Captain, " I was 
commanding a garri- 
son at a wearisome 
little town in a weari- 
some little department. 
Not a distraction ; never 
a theatre ; scarcely 
an atrocious cafe 

" Do you really wish it ? " 

" Certainly! " 

" Very well, then. However, I warn you 
that my story is not in the least like yours, 
and that my thief is very interesting." 

"One day, my work being eudeo, I did 
not kno^©nv^frtat<fni«Pn a »d little by little I 




had taken the h'abit of going every evening 
to the Union Club, the only one which 
the village possessed, It was named thus 
because they were always disputing there. 
Generally we played there a little, except 
during the three large fairs of the year, 
which lasted each time about eight days. 

" One autumn afternoon, towards the 
commencement of one of these fairs, I 
arrived at the Club in good time. 

"There were many people in the Club 
whom I did not know : rich farmers who 
only came rarely to the town, or squires 
from the country who came to advertise 
their houses. 

" ' A good party to-day,' said an habitnc 
to me ; 'it will be curious.' 

" I turned towards the table where they 

and a large bank, too, for the notes and 
coins were piled up before him. 

" ' How much each time? ' asked someone. 

" ' Oh ! ' said a fat farmer, laughing, 
1 M. de Mcrtens has all the luck ; he is able 
to hold an open bank. 1 

" The young man was very pale ; there 
was a kind of wildness in his eyes. 

" ' Open bank I ' he stammered. 

" This was a signal for his ill-luck. Ten 
times in succession the unfortunate Mertens 
lost. In a quarter of an hour the bank had 

" Another player took his place, and the 
play proceeded, so animated, so passionate, 
that I even allowed myself to be fascinated, 
and began to play with the others. 

" There was no more room round the 


were playing, and checked a gesture 
of surprise. The banker was quite 
a young man of about twenty-two 
or twenty-three years of age, whom 
I knew "by sight. He interested me, for 
his father had died very bravely at 
Magenta, and had left him a small for- 
tune, and a name difficult to equal. He 
only came rarely to the Club, and did 
not play. I was therefore very much 
astonished to see him holding a bank, 

table, and so I played stand ing, holding in 
my hand my hat, into which I nervously 
threw my gains, which grew larger and 
larger every minute. 

" The party was more impassioned than 
ever, when someone cried out to me — 

;i 'Captain, you are being robbed ! ' 





" I turned round at once, and instantly 
seized a hand, the hand of M. de Mertens, 
which held a note for a thousand francs, 
which he was taking from me. 

* The face of the unfortunate man was 

" I exchanged a look with him, one only, 
and I saw something pass in his eyes, now 
enlarged by fright. 

" ' M. de Mertens is quite right,' I said, 
quite coolly, 'and I am surprised that any- 
one has dared to bring such an accusation 
against such a 
man as he ; we 
aTe associates, and 
he has taken 
money for which 
he has need, that 
is all; 

" The explana- 
tions were brief. 
It was the first 
time that the in- 
dividual who 
cried out had 
come to the Club, 
and he was not 
acquainted with 
\T. de Mertens. 
The players, who 
were standing, 
were rather 
anxious ; the new 
comer had seen 
a hand slip in the 
hat, and, believ- 
ing that someone 
was stealing from 
ine, had cried 
out. He made 
profuse apologies 
to Mertens, 
whom all sympa- 
thised with on 
the deplorable 
incident caused 
by the foolish - 
ness of the impo- " A LA i.v i 

litic individual. 

"We then con- 
tinued playing, and M. de Mertens went 

"Three days passed, and I received no 
news from the young man. That he was. 
not wishful to see me was quite natural. 
[n saving him I had saved the posthumous 
honour of a brave soldieT ; but still I 
thought it strange that he should not have 
found some way of testifying his apprecia- 
tion of my service, 

" One evening I was just setting out 
to make some visits, -when my orderly told 
me that a lady was waiting in the salon. 

M She was a lady of about forty-five, a 
face calm and proud, with an honest look. 

Ul I am Madame de Mertens,' she said. 
' My son has told me all, and I have come 
to thank you for having kept unsullied the 
honour of our name.' 
" ' Madame ! ' 

11 ' My son was foolishly enamoured of a 
woman, who was always demanding money, 
and he has ruined 
himself for her ; 
he has played, he 
has lost. You 
know the rest.' 

,f I was very 
sorry, for the 
trouble of this 
noble woman 
touched me 
deeply ; she was 
standing before 
me, and the tears 
glistened in her 
dark eyes. 

"' A folly of 
youth, Madame,' 
I stammered. ' I 
will see your 
son and talk to 

" She quietly 
shook her head, 
t(i You will not 
see him, Captain ; 
he is engaged in 
the Infantry of 
Marines, and 1 
came when he 
had departed. 1 " 


We had listened 

waitjmc" to Captain I 

without interrup- 
tion ; when he 
stopped there was a short silence. 

" And the end, Captain ? What has 
become of M. de Mertens ? " 

" He is dead, gentlemen. A few years 
ago I received a letter, which came from 
Kelung ; a poor little letter, written with 
pale ink, on paper already yellow. It con- 
tained these lines : — 

'1 am seriousiv v < uiided. . . , Admiral 
Co„rjl pflV ^^l i:i l F r CTg ^ :MJ the cross 



But I am going to die. ... I send it you, 
my poor cross, to you who saved me, and I 
shall be happy if you will wear it.' 

" That is the reason, gentlemen, that 
in place of fastening to my uniform the 

decoration which the Chancellor of the 
Legidn d'Honiicur gave me, I carry the 
cross of the sergeant of the Marine Infantry, 
who, after being caught as a thief, died at 
Kelung like a hero." 

Original from 

Celebrities at Play. 

Absence of occupation is not rest ; 

A mind quite vacant is a. mind distressed. " 

O sec the great unbend is, we 
have it on historic authority, 
a source of infinite amuse- 
ment to the populace. If that 
was true in Macaulay's day?, 
it is even less disputable in 
these, when a special journalism exists 
mainly to chronicle the small doings of the 
great, and every newspaper has its personal 
column. The fierce light of publicity, 
which at one time beat solely on the throne 
and its entourage, now shines as brilliantly 
in Stuceoville as on the mansion or the 
palace. The goings and coinings of the 
Brown -Joneses and the Fitz-Smythes are 
made as prominent — at a guinea or a half 
the paragraph — a* those of Dukes and Cabinet 
Ministers. Everybody knows, or wants to 
know, everybody else's little weaknesses ; 
and he is a careful man nowadays who 
hides his idiosyncrasies from the public 
gaze. Happier still is he who, having his 
skeleton in his cupboard, can double lock the 
door and lose the key. 

Before the days of society journalism 
these things were never freely talked of — 
except with bated breath and in the most 
profound secrecy at tea and scandal gather- 
ings — during the lifetime of the personage. 
In his biography they would find a place, 
when he had no power to resent the im- 

pertinent prying into his domestic secrets. 
Who, for instance, would have dared to 
print a gossipy par. about Cardinal Riche- 
lieu's favourite recreation of leaping over fur- 
niture ; Peter the Great's diversion of being 
wheeled in a perambulator over his neigh- 
bours' flower-beds ; or Pope Innocent III. 's 
partiality for ninepins ? Yet everyone 
knows and freely criticises the amusements 
of our Royal Family, our greatest legis- 
lators, and most celebrated people. The 
musical performances of our princes and 
princesses, and the Princess of Wales's 
achievements in amateur photography — in 
which she is an equal adept with the Grand 
Duke of Tuscany and the Archduchess 
Maria Theresa — are matters of common 
knowledge. The caricaturist indulges his 
fancy, and often his political spite, about 
Mr. Gladstone's tree-felling, Lord Salisbury's 
experimental chemistry, Mr. Balfour's golf, 
Mr. W. H. Smith's yachting, Mr. Chaplin's 
coachd riving, and Mr. Chamberlain's 
amateur gardening. When Lord Sher- 
brooke was known as M Bobby Lowe," his 
achievements on the bicycle were not only 
the object of caricature, but the subject of 
much coarser vilification than ever was the 
childish amusement of the poet Shelley 
with his paper boats in the parks. Even 
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt w^as openly twitted 
in the House of Commons the other day by 
Sir Henry James on his incapacity in 

But the popular knowledge on these 
matters is not solely due to partisan 
animosity. The demand for such informa- 
tion is insatiable, and the competition in the 
journalistic world so keen that the demand 
is supplied with as much detail as possible. 
Hence Mr. Jrving's dog is as familiar in the 
public mind as either Scott's canine com- 
panion or Dante's cat, and people talk 
glibly of Rosa Bonheur's pets, Sarah 
Bernhardt's snakes and tigers, and the 
monkeys with whose gambols Mrs. Weldon 
beguiled her leisure hours, Nor is the 
Prince of Wales's fondness for horses and 
horse-racing free cither from criticism or 

All this publicity is not perhaps an un- 
mixed evT Our celebrities at play nowa- 


i 4 6 


days, if they do not 

take their pleasures 
more sadly, do so at 
least with more dis- 
cretion. The Prince 
of Walts, for instance, 
is criticised, con- 
demned, and even 
prayed for, because 
he has a modest rac- 
ing stable, encourages 
the sport of kings, 
and loses a modest 
stake at cards.. But 
what sort of a para- 
graph would appear 
in The Weekly Scan- 
tlalmrmgcr if he 
followed in the foot- 
steps of that previous 
Prince of Wales 
whose tavern - fre- 
quenting is matter of history. Our cele- 
brities do not now play pranks publicly. 
If Lord Tennyson, instead of meditative 
wanderings by the sea, were to indulge, as 
Cowper did, in glaring windows, a snap- 
shot of a detective camera might be relied 
on quickly to give publicity to the fact. 
If Professor Tyndall, instead of climbing 
the Alps, w r ere to copy Rousseau, and roll 
boulders down Primrose-hill, he, too, 
would quickly achieve an unenviable — 
notoriety. Or if any of our present- 
day celebrities were to seek their 
relaxation and amusement in the form 
which delighted Dean Swift, by harness- 
ing his servants and driving them up 
and down stairs, what " snappy " para- 
graphs there would be in the society 

The amusements of our celebrities 
are tame and commonplace in com- 
parison with some of these. But even 
nowadays the idiosyncrasies of public 
men are sometimes curious. For in- 
stance, there lives in the neighbour- 
hood of Nottingham the Rev. Dr. Cox, 
the late editor of The Expositor \ the 
most famous Hebrew scholar in the 
country. He and his wife are to be 
constantly seen playing at ball in the 
front garden of his residence. If it was 
done in the sanctity of the back garden, 
there would be no ground for comment, 
for the fact of a learned div ine playing at 
ball is not more remarkable than that 
recorded by Disraeli the elder, of Knox 
visiting Calvin one Sunday and finding 

him engaged in a 
game of bowls. No 
one has presumed 
to whisper that our 
greatest Hebrew 
scholar was ever 
guilty of amusing 
himself in his own 
peculiar way on a 
Sunday, and certainly 
no one has ever 
complained of an- 
noyance. This can- 
not be said with 
regard to the 
amuse me tits of 
some ''celebrities," 
especially when they 
take the form of pets. 
Sarah Bernhardt 
came under the 
notice of the autho- 
rities in America on one occasion, when 
her pet tiger got loose and created a 
large amount of consternation. Every- 
one must remember the notoriety a certain 
Countess achieved a few years ago with 
respect to her cats. That was perhaps the 
worst instance that could be cited. But 
there was a doleful story told some time 
ago by the " interviewer " employed by a 




smart paper to inter- 
view Mrs. Weldim 
when she was on her 
theatrical tour. He 
found her amusing 
herself with her pet 
monkeys, and was ex- 
ceed ingly discomfited 
by her giving him her 
specially pet monkey 
to mind while she 
went upstairs. No 
one, perhaps, wastes 
much sympathy over 
interviewers, and no 
great regret would be 
felt in the fact that 
" the subsequent pro- 
ceedings interested 
him no more." 

One thing, how- 
ever, should not be 
lost sight of. The o 

continual harping "< 

upon one point by 

caricaturists as well as chroniclers is apt 
to mislead. Mr. Balfour, for instance, 
is often supposed to be devoted to 
nothing but politics and golf, whereas he 
is best known as the greatest metaphysician 
of the age. The Edinburgh University 
conferred on him their degree in recogni- 
tion of his mental philosophy. Mr. Glad- 
stone's tree-felling, 
too, has assumed an 
exaggerated import- 
ance in the eyes of 
the masses, from a 
similar cause. As a 
matter of fact, and 
especially of late 
years, his wood-chop- 
ping feats have been 
few and far between. 
He himself only re- 
cently claimed, as his 
chief recreation dur- 
ing the past forty 
years, the study of 
Homer, for which he 
is, perhaps, more 
famed than any of his 
other achievements. 
With him recreation 
has been change of 
employment, just as 
Louis XVI. turned 
from cares of State 
to making locks, the 

, Google 

Buonapartes to 
literary pursuits, and 
Prince Rupert, the 
discoverer of mezzo- 
tint, to practical 
engraving. Lord 
Sherbrooke, too, 
though an ardent 
cyclist, found recrea- 
tion also in poetry, 
as testified by his 
" Poems of a Life," 
while Smiles 1 self- 
help series is one of 
the best instances of 
useful recreative 
study. It is eveiT 
doubtful, on his own 
authority, if Mr. 
Chamberlain's leisure 
is wholly absorbed in 
the immense gardens 
of his palatial resi- 
f." dence on the outskirts 

of Birmingham, for 
he himself is recorded to have said at a 
meeting he addressed in that town, that he 
would far rather have been at home romp- 
ing with his children than addressing his 
constituency. This is the only available 
authority at the moment lor the statement 
that he shares the weakness of Oliver 
Goldsmith and the historian Macau lay for 
juvenile romping* — 
a weakness with 
which his political 
opponents have not 
been backward in 
twitting him. Lord 
Salisbury's chemical 
experiments at Hat- 
field have already 
been spoken of. 

Mention has also 
already been made of 
the idiosyncrasies of 
celebrities as mani- 
fested in their play- 
time. It has also 
been pointed out that 
in the case of many- 
recreation is only 
another source of 
useful employment. 
If any further illus- 
tration were needed 
on this point, atten- 
tion might be called 
jt. to the benefit 

Original from 




astronomers have reaped through the dead 
James Nasmyth, and the living Sir Henry 
Bessemer, having used their leisure 
hours in the construction of telescopes. 
Nasmyth invented one which was far in 
advance of anything 
previously produced, 
and Sir Henry 
Bessemer is perfect- 
ing one which is to 
eclipse everything 
yet invented. But 
there is also another 
phase to be noticed 
in "Celebrities at 
Play," and that is 
the case of those 
who adopt some 
recreative employ- 
ment or study 
which, while entirely 
distinct from their 
ordinary avocation, 
nevertheless becomes 
of utility. For this 
reason, apparently, 
Mr. Black more, the 
novelist, and author 
of u Lorna Doone," 

who is not only a novelist, but a barrister, 
has adopted market -gardening and fruit- 
growing as the occupation of his leisure 
hours. He is. to be met with several times 
a week with his wagon-load of market 
produce en route for Coven t Garden, where, 
as an enthusiastic amateur, he is scarcely 
distinguishable from the crowd of country 
professionals. His gardens and farm are at 
Teddington, and he is a well-known cha- 
racter there. Something akin to this 
picture of a favourite author amusing him- 
self with growing cabbages and apples is 
that of our Poet Laureate in the milk 
trade. In his " Northern Farmer "' and 
other of his poems, he displays a very acute 
knowledge of agricultural matters, but not 
many would have suspected him of being a 
dairy farmer in real earnest. This, how- 
ever, ts a fact, and on the west side of the 
isle of Wight, where he passes most of his 
time, milk-carts are to be constantly met 
bearing the name and title, M Alfred, Lord 
Tennyson." Some of our ladies, too, show 
a practical turn of mind. Not only do they 
go in for gardening, but they are starting 
an association in London, with a depot in 
Lower Sloane-street, Employment will be 
found for needy ladies in taking charge of 
conservatories, window boxes, balconies, 
and small gardens. Here we have an illus- 
tration of the recreation of the rich pro- 
viding charitable assistance for the needy. 

Harking back for a moment to "play" 
as confined to games, one remembers that 
Dr. Forbes Winslow 
has a real enthusiasm 
for lawn-tennis, 
Major Marindin is 
devoted to football, 
and that the amateur 
tennis championship 
is held by a knight 
— Sir E. Gray ; while 
Lord Harris's fame 
as a cricketer is 
world-wide. It may, 
however, not be so 
well known that 
Lady Harris also 
shares her husband's 
love of the national 
game — even to the 
extent of playing it 
in the tropics." Only 
a few weeks ago at 
If the hill station of 
Mahabulesh war — - 
the scat of the Bom- 
Original from 




bay Govern ment in the hot season— 
she captained a team of six ladies and six 
gentlemen against a similar team captained 
by another lady. The conditions were 
that the gentlemen 
should play left- 
handed with a 
broomstick, bowling 
and fielding also 
with the left hand, 
while the ladies 
should play in the 
orthodox manner. 
In the end Lady 
Harris's team won r 
scoring 63 runs to 
their opponents' 58, 
Fishing has had 
many enthusiastic 
devotees. John 
Bright, the poet 
Dryden, and the 
philosopher George 
Herbert, were all 
enthusiastic fisher- 
men. In our own 
day Lord Hartington 

is a devoted knight of the rod ; while 
Mr. Black, the novelist, it was recently 
reported, has been salmon fishing with great 
success in Sutherlandshire. 

Of the celebrities who have outlived their 
"play" days, a unique example is to be 
found in the case of Prince Bismarck. In 
hts early days Prince Bismarck had a passion 
for duelling. It does not appear whethei it 
carried him to such an extent that— like 
Crockey Doyle who insulted people right 

and left in order to have the pleasure of 
apologising — -he made enemies for the 
pleasure of fighting them, but at least 
twenty-seven duels are recorded in which 
he took part. Things 
then got too warm 
for him, or opponents 
grew shy ; and, duels 
running short, he 
took to shooting, 
drinking, and play- 
ing jokes to such an 
extent that he be- 
came known as " mad 
Bismarck." What 
he does now, beyond 
smoking cigars on 
the "chain" system, 
and drinking im- 
mense quantities of 
beer, is not known, 
though there is some 
reason to think that, 
like his illustrious 
coadjutor Von 
Moltkc, he spends 
his leisure in devising 
schemes to harass his opponents. This 
method of spending their play hours is 
a common one among men of political 
eminence. There are few who can, 
like Mr. Gladstone, work off the petty 
worries of public life by cutting down trees 
and poring over musty manuscripts. There 
is no doubt at all that this accounts for the 
evergreen freshness of the man, his wonder- 
ful energy arid vitality. It is not the work 
but the worry that kills. 

Original from 

The Doctor s Story. 
From the French of Guv dr Maupassant, 


ONCE knew a woman, one 
of my patients, now dead, to 
whom the most extraordinary 
thing in the world happened, 
and the most mysterious and 

a Russian, Countess Marie 
Baranow t a very great lady, of exquisite 
beauty. You know how beautiful the 
Russians are, or, at least, how beautiful 
they seem to us — with their delicate noses, 
their sensitive mouths ; their eyes so close 
together, of an indefinable colour, a blue 
grey ; and their cold, rather hard, charm. 
They have something wicked and seductive, 
haughty and melting, tender and severe, 
utterly charming to a Frenchman. At 
bottom, perhaps, it is only the difference of 
race and blood that makes us see so much 
in them. 

Her doctor had, during many years, 
known that she was threatened by a disease 
of the chest, and endeavoured to persuade 
her to come to France for the winter, but 
she obstinately refused to quit St. Peters- 
burg. At last, in the autumn of last year, 
the doctor compelled her to leave for 

She was alone in her compartment of 
the train, her servants occupying another. 
She leant against the window a little 
sadly, watching the country and the villages 
as she whirled past, feeling very isolated, 
very lonely in life. 

At each station her footman, Ivan, came 
to see if his mistress had everything she 
desired. He was an old servant, blindly 
devoted, ready to obey any order she might 
give him. 

Night fell, the train rolled on at full speed. 
She could not sleep, she was totally un- 
nerved. Suddenly the idea occurred to her 
of counting the money given to her at the 
last moment in French gold. She opened 
her tittle bag and emptied on to her lap 
the glistening stream of metal. 

But, of a sudden, a breath of cold air 
caught her cheek. She lifted her head in 
surprise. The door opened. The Countess 
Marie, in dismay, threw a shawl over the 
money spread out in her lap, and waited. 
A moment afterwards a man appeared, bare- 
headed, wounded in one hand, panting, and 
in evening dress. 

He reclosed the door, sat down and looked 
at his neighbour with a glittering eye, then 
wrapped his wrist in a handkerchief. 




The poor woman felt faint with fright. 
This man must have seen her counting her 
money, and had come to kill her and steal 

He still fixed his gaze upon her, breath- 
lessly, his face drawn, evidently waiting 
to spring upon her. 

He said brusquely — 

" Madame, have no fear." 

She answered nothing, she was incapable 
of opening her lips, she heard her heart 
beating and a 
buzzing in her 

" lam no male- 
factor, ma da me," 
he continued. 

Still she said 
nothing ; but in 
a sudden move- 
ment she made, 
h e r knees 
knocked together 
and the money 
poured on to the 
carpet like water 
from a spout. 

The man stared 
in surprise at this 
flow of gold, and 
at once stooped 
to gather it up. 

She, terrified, 
rose, casting all 
her gold on to 
the carpet, and 
rushed to the 
door to throw 
herself on to the 
line. But he per- 
ceived her inten- 
tion, sprang up, - HL SfMm ur 
seized her in his 

arms, and forced her on to the seat, holding 
her by the wrists. 

" Listen to me, madame, 1 am no thief. 
As a proof I am going to gather up this 
money and restore it to you. But I am a 
lost man, a dead man, unless you help me 
to pass the frontier. I can tell you no more. 
In one hour we shall be at the last Russian 
station, in one hour and twenty minutes we 
shall be on the other side of the boundaries 
of the Empire. Unless you aid me, I am 
lost. And yet, madame, I have neither 
killed nor stolen, nor done anything dis- 
honourable. That I swear to you. I can 
tell you no more," 

And, going down on his knees, ha col- 

lected the money, feeling under the seats, 
and looking into the furthest corners. 
Then, when the little leather bag was once 
more full, he handed it to his neighbour 
without a word, and returned to his seat in 
the other corner of the carriage. 

Neither moved. She sat motionless and 
mute, still faint with fright, but recovering 
little by little. As to him, he moved no 
muscle^ he sat erect, his eyes fixedly look- 
ing straight before him, very pale, as 
though he were 
dead. Every now 
and then she 
threw htm a 
glance, which was 
quickly averted. 
He was a man of 
about thirty, very 
handsome," with 
every appearance 
of being a gen- 

The train tore 
through the dark- 
ness, throwing its 
whistles into the 
night, now slack- 
ening speed, now- 
off again at its 
fastest. Then it 
calmed its flight, 
whistled several 
times, and 
stopped alto- 

Ivan appeared 
at the door to 
take orders. The 
Countess Marie 
,d seized her." looked for the 

last time at her 
strange companion. Then in a voice 
brusque and trembling, said to her 
servant — 

" Ivan, you will return to the Count. I 
have no further need of your services." 

Amazed, the man opened his enormous 
eyes. He stammered — 

" " But—but " 

She continued — 

" No, you need not come. I have 
changed my mind. I wish you to stay in 
Russia. Here, here is money for the 
journey. Give me your cap and mantle." 

The' old servant, bewildered, took off his 
cap and mantle, with unquestioning obedi- 
ence, accustomed to the sudden whims and 


OF ,' 




strange caprices of his mistress. He walked 
away with the tears in his eyes. 

The train started again, racing to the 

Then the Countess Marie said to her 
companion — 

" These things are for you, monsieur ; 
you are Ivan, my servant., I make but one 
condition : it is that you will never speak 
to me, that you will say no word to thank 
me on any pretext whatever.' 1 


One day, as I was receiving my patients 
in my study, I saw a tall man enter. 
" Doctor," he said, "I come to ask news of 
the Countess Marie Baranow." 

" She is beyond hope," I replied. " She 
will never return to Russia." 

And this man fell to sobbing ; then he 
arose, and went out staggering like a 
drunken man. That same evening I told 
the Countess that a stranger had been to 

The stranger bowed without a word. 

Soon a fresh halt was made, and the 
officials in uniform entered the train. The 
Countess handed them the papers, and 
pointing to the man seated in the far end 
of the carriage — 

11 My servant, Ivan ; here is his passport." 

The train started again. 

During the whole of the night they 
remained tetea-'ctc, dumb both. 

In the morning on stopping at a German 
station, the stranger alighted. Then, 
standing by the door, he said— 

" Pardon tne, madame, that I break my 
promise, but I have deprived you of your 
servant ; it is only fair that I should re- 
place him. Is there anything you require ? " 

She replied coldly — 

11 Go and send my maid. 1 ' 

He went. Then disappeared. When- 
ever she alighted at a refreshment-room 
she saw him watching her from a distance. 
In due course they arrived at Men lone, 

me to ask after her health. She seemed 
touched, and told me the tale I have just 
told you. She added — 

" This man, whom I do not know, follows 
me like my shadow. I meet him every 
time I go out. He looks at me very 
strangely, but he has never spoken to me." 
She reflected, and then added — 
" Look, there he is, below my window ! " 
She rose from her sofa, drew the curtains 
aside, and showed me the man who had 
called upon me, sitting on a bench on the 
promenade, his eyes raised to the hotel. 
He saw us, rose and walked away without 
once turning his head. So it was that I 
took part in a strange and incomprehen- 
sible episode ; in the love of these two 
beings who were quite unknown to one 

He loved with the devotion of a rescued 
animal, grateful and devoted until death. 
He came every day to ask me, " How is 
she ? " knowing that I had guessed. And 





he wept bitterly when he had seen her pass, 
paler and weaker every day. 

She said to me — 

" I have spoken but once to this singular 
man, and it seems to me I have known him 
for years." 

And when they met she returned his bow 
with a grave and charming smile. I knew 
she was happy — she so lonely and dying. 
I knew she was happy to be loved with 
such constancy and respect, with this 
exaggerated poesy, with this devotion 
ready for all hazards. And yet, faithful to 
her obstinate though high-minded resolve, 
she absolutely refused to receive him, to 
know his name, or to speak to him. She 
said, " No, no, that would spoil our strange 
friendship. We must remain strangers to 
one another. 11 

As to hi in, he was of a certainty a kind 

of Don Quixote, for he took no steps to 
approach her. He was determined to keep 
to the letter the absurd promise he had 
made to her in the train. 

Often during the long hours of weakness 
she rose from her sofa to draw back the 
curtains, and look if he were there below 
the window. And when she had seen him, 
always immovably seated on his bench, she 
returned to her couch with a smile on her 

She died one morning about six o'clock. 
As I left the hotel he came to me, his face 
distorted ; he had already heard the news. 

u I should like to see her for a second in 
your presence," he said. 

I took his arm and re-entered the house. 

When he was by the bedside of the dead, 
he took her hand and kissed it, a long, long 
kiss. Then he fled like a madman. 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 

Born 1847. 


JARD, his 
3 Grace the 
' Duke of Nor- 
folk, premier Duke and 
Earl, was bom in Carl- 
ton-terrace, December 
27, 1847, and succeeded 
to the title on the death 
of his father in i860 ; 
so that evtn at fifteen, 
the age at which the 
first of our three por- 
traits represents him, he 
had already been for 
three years Duke of Nor- 
folk. His Grace, who is 
a zealous Roman Catho- 
lic, takes the mo«t active 

interest in all matters 
relating to the welfare 
of his Church, and fre- 
quently fills the chair 
at meetings of his fellow- 
Catholics. He is Presi- 
dent of the Catholic 
Union of Great Britain. 
It was to him that Dr. 
Newman addressed, in 
the year 1875, his me- 
morable reply to Mr. 
Gladstone's " Political 
Expostulation." The 
Duke of Norfolk is one 
of the strongest oppo- 
nents of Home Rule, in 
which matter he has 
brought himself into 
collision with the Irish 
priesthood. The Duke 
married, in 1877, Lady 
Flora Hastings, who 
died in 1887. 





k Fr„ m a Plw •o. I*] ACE si i* '"■ 

graphs, of 

Emperor and Empress a 

various ages of their live 
when their memorable visi 
is still fresh in the memor 
of all, and while the she 
windows are crowded wi 
their portraits. Nothing 
could bu more interesting 
than the first photograph 
here given of the German 
Empress — the only one 
taken at an early age- 
known to exist — which 
shows her as a little girl of 
ten wars old, taken when 
her father, the Duke 
Frederick of Schleswig- 
Hnlstein, was entirely un- 
dertaking her education 
and that of her younger 
sisters. In the second likqne 
when sought in marriage by 

fr^a a FfruUi. bj/] T HK HJI I'lIEib AND HER FAMILY, t88B. [Seti ,f fi«*>r. P<>tt,!nm 

ss we see her at twenty-two, and in the last surrounded 



from a Itraicing bjf\ 


"IORN in 
London, Mr. 
Sterry com- 
menced de- 
scriptive writing at the 
age of four ; at eight, 
he wrote a story in a 
series of letters ; at ten, 
fell down in worship 
before the genius of 
Charles Dickens ; and 
shortly afterwards, hav- 
ing read a life of Xelson, 
vowed that he would 
become an admiral. 6 
Fortunately this fit did 
not last very long, and 
he returned to art, sketching, and writing, 
until, at the age of twenty-two, he made 
a serious start in life with an entertain- 
ment called, "Autumn Leaves from a 

Tourist's Note Book," 
writing his own lecture 
and lyrics, and being 
his own scene painter 
and musical composer. 
With this entertain- 
ment he travelled round 
the country, and was 
welcomed and success- 
ful wherever he showed 
his genial face. Among 
his countless contribu- 
tions to Punch are 
" Lays of a Lazy Min- 
strel 1 ' and "Songs of 
the Street.'' The friends 
of Mr. Ashby Sterry 
are attached to him 
not only for his rare 
talents, but for an exceptional kindness of 
nature which imparts a peculiar sweetness 
to their personal intercourse and associa- 
tion with him. 



i'h„l.,.l„, /;■■ lu„,„„, lun'-ri'i-K "'«-. 



early ages of four ami eight 
displayed no especial tenden- 
cies towards the stage. Her 
early life was the ordinary 
one of an English country 
gentleman's daughter, while she became 
an adept at foreign languages, and con- 
versant not only with the three " R's," but 
with two more — riding and rowing. At 
the former, indeed, she was "a wonder 
across country," and at the present time 
there is nothing she likes 
more than a " scamper, 1 ' or 
a day on the river. Miss 
Fortescue made her first 
appearance on the stage as 
''Lady Ella" in Patience. 
In two years she was play- 
ing the heroine in Dan! 
Druce^X. the Court Theatre. 
Immediately after this she 
was engaged for a starring 
tour through England and 
America, and on her return 
from the United States, Mr. 
Augustus Harris secured 
her services for Drury Lane 
Theatre, where she was pro- 
bably the youngest " lead- 
ing lady " ever engaged at 
the national theatre. In 
1886 she started on her first 
theatrical enterprise on her 
own account. Since then she has been her 
own manageress, and has conducted her 

long tours and short 
London seasons 
with unvarying and 
increasing success. 
Miss FoTtescue was 
always a beautiful 
woman, and in the 
last two or three 
years her talent and 
resource in her art 
have been been so 
generally admitted as 
to have passed beyond 
the region of dispute. She is a brilliant and 
remarkably intellectual conversationalist. 





Born 1852. 
Mr. Augustus 
Harris's father 
achieved a world- 
wide reputation as 
a stage - manager, 
and it is now ad- 
mitted that the 
fame of the father 
has been eclipsed 
by that of the son. 
Mr. Augustus 
Harris, as a very 
young man, played 
Malcolm at the 
Theatre Royal 
Manchester ; and 
he afterwards 
joined Mr. Barry 
Sullivan's com- 
pany, in which he 
played juvenile 
and light comedy 
parts. The most 
important step in 
his career was 
taken when he 
succeded Mr. Chat- 
terton as lessee of 

Original from 

[Ff,,iu n I'hntv. by ISstrrmd.'i 

Drury Lane Thea- 
tre, and from that 
date his onward 
march has been 
triumphantly suc- 
cessful. But Mr. 
Harris has not been 
content with fame 
won upon the lyric 
and dramatic stage. 
Ambitious for pub- 
lie honours he be- 
came a candidate 
for a seat in the 
London County 
Council, and, being 
elected, has proved 
a worthy and use- 
ful member of that 
body. His election 
last year as Sheriff 
of London has con- 
ferred distinction 
upon the art he pro- 
perly represents. 



Born 1853. 

|R. HALL CAINE, one of 
the most original and 
powerful of our later 
novelists, is only now in 
his thirty-eighth year, and 
may be therefore said 

have attained celebrity at an early period 
of life. He was born August 14, 1853, at 
Runcorn, in Lancashire, and is doubtless 
indebted to his Manx, parentage and to 
the reminiscences of his childhood for 
much of his peculiar power as an author. 
Originally intended for an architect, he 
studied for that profession in Liverpool, 
but at the age of twenty he commenced a 
career as a journalist, the stepping-stone 
of so manv other famous novelists. In 
18S0 he came to London, and spent a 
precious year with P. G. Rossetti. by 
whose bedside he sal when that gifted 
poet drew his last breath. During that 
period Mr. Caine contributed to the 
The Atkenmtm and The Academy. His 
"Sonnets ol Three Centuries " were 
published in 1881, and were followed by 
"Recollections of Rossetti" (1882), 
"Cobwebs of Criticism" (i88^) t and 
"Lifeot Coleridge" (1886). Before the 
publication of this latter work he wrote 
his first novel, (1 The Shadow of a Crime," 
which immediately attracted attention to 

him as a novelist of rare originality. ''The 
Deemster" (1887), and u The Bondman 1 ' 
(i*QO), confirmed the hopes entertained of 
him, and set the seal upon his fame. 
Original from 



I L A B O U • 

J the eldest son 
of the late John 
Labouehere, of Broome 

Park, Surrey, in the nur- 
sery of which house our 
first portrait represents 
him in the company of 
his toy horse. At the 
age of fourteen, as in our 
second portrait, he was a 
boy at Eton. In his early 
days Mr. Labouehere was 
a great traveller, and 
during his sojourn in the 
Wild West his romantic presen 

tastes and love of adven- [ jy8 "* J * a, * l » *<"*■«.■ 
ture led him to join, for a time, a tribe of 
Chippewa Indians, with whom he roamed 
over the prairies. Through th^e influence of 


his uncle, Kurd Taun- 
ton, he entered the 
diplomatic service in 
I X 54, and was successively 
Attache at Washington, 
Munich, Stockholm, 
Frankfort, St. Petersburg, 
and Dresden. At the 
age of our third por- 
trait Mr. Labouehere had 
left the service two years, 
and had entered Parlia- 
ment as Liberal mem- 
ber for Windsor. In 
1880 he was returned for 
Northampton at the bead 
of the poll, and has sat 
for that borough ever 
since. Mr. Labouehere 
is proprietor and editor of 
Truth and part-proprie- 
tor of The Daily News, 
1 and he is noted as a 
writer for the same qualities that make 
him popular as a speaker — his vivacity of 
style, and quick, lively repartee. 




10 the 

man who 
" knows a 

hnrs e,' 1 
and whose 
inc 1 i na- 
tions tend 
toward what has, 
for many years 
past, been recognised as the 
fashionable national sport, 
there is probably no spot in 
the country, or, indeed, 
throughout the world, around which so 
much combined interest and curiosity is 
centred as Newmarket. Newmarket, as a 
town, is distinctly modest and undeniably 
unpretentious. Its High-street presents a 
happy division between modern improve- 
ments and old-time associations. There 
are quaint and odd corners where one 
can almost picture the gay cavaliers of 
Charles II. 's time wending their way to- 
wards the racecourse at the top of the hill, 
and even imagine the Merry Monarch 
himself being summarily interrupted in 
following his ll fancy " as the animal flew 
over the grassy sward — for was he not at 
the races at Newmarket when news came 
of the outburst of rioting at Rye House ? 
To-day Newmarket is the capital of the 
world of sport. From fifteen hundred to 
two thousand horses are in course of train- 
ing here, under the care of some eighty 
trainers in and around the town, whilst a 
veritable army of stable boys are patiently 
waiting and longing to guide one day to 

victory the winner of the blue ribbon of the 

Seeing that a horse is everything at 
Newmarket, we propose to visit some of 
the homes of the finest thoroughbreds in. 
the world. As we leave the station yard 
a fine view of the famous Heath lies before 
us. To the right the great expanse of green 
slopes up towards a fine cluster of trees, 
known as Warren Hill. We can just catch 
sight of the spires of Warren Tower, and a 
distant view of Mr. Gurry's training estab- 
lishment ; we have an excellent view of 
Seftitn Lodge, the Newmarket home of the 
Duchess of Montrose ; while to the left is 
Mr. John Dawson's house and stables, sur- 
rounded with magnificent trees and lilac in 
full bloom. 

u One moment, sir." 

A friendly porter tells us that the horses 
are just returning from the Manchester 
Races. Newmarket station sees the arrival 
and departure of many animals in the course 
of a year. Last year no fewer than 91 were 
sent to Epsom, 105 to Goodwood, and 106 
to Ascot. The special train has just come 
in, and the next moment the great horse- 
boxes are opened. The boxes are, in reality, 
travelling stables, for they are all fitted up 
exactly on the same principle, with accom- 
modation for "two." A small " third-class'* 
compartment is attached for the lad who 
accompanies the horse on its journey. The 
platform is carpeted with straw, and no 
sooner are the huge doors opened than the 
occupier evinces the greatest possible desire 
to get out. But these stable lads seem to 
know every weak spot in a horse's disposi- 
tion, and their methods of pacification are a 




delightful blending of professional tact and 
indisputable kindness. No sooner are the 
horses out, than the lads are on their backs 

little higher up the road is the Mernoriam 
Church of St. Agnes, erected by the Duchess 
of Montrose in i8Sb, in mernoriam of Mr. 
Stirling Crawfurd. The minister, the Rev. 
W. Colville Wallis, is busy in the little 
garden which adjoins his house. Would 
we see the church ? The interior is not 
without beauty, and a fine painting of the 
Italian school adorns one of the walls. The 

guiding them along the platform. One boy 
is peculiarly attractive. He is the smallest 
stable boy in Newmarket, and is familiarly 
known as "the Midget." No wonder, for 
as this diminutive youngster sits, the picture 
of health, on his horse's back, it is no easy 
matter to see him amongst the great heap 
of rugs and horse cloths which arc on the 
saddle with him. 

Though the majority of training estab- 
lishments at Newmarket are practically 
conducted on the same principle, every one 
of them, however, has something of parti- 
cular interest about it. The description of 
the stalls in one stable would fully typify 
those in the next twenty, and we would 
ask those trainers to whose establishments 
special reference is omitted not to think this 
due to any want of courtesy on our part, but 
solely to the great similarity which, in many 
instances, characterises them. 

We have crossed the Heath, staying for a 
moment to watch a hundred horses exer- 
cising in small detachments, and in single 
solemn file. Here is the corner of the 
Bury- road. Nothing could be prettier than 
the grounds in front of Sefton Lodge — the 
verandah is completely hidden by trailing 
leaf, and the flower-beds are sparkling with 
tulips, red and white. At the back of the 
house is the training stable, where twenty 
horses are passing through ** a course." A 

church is lit by electric light, which is sup- 
plied from the house. A single monument, 
depicting " Calvary," is on the adjoining 
land, exquisitely carved in marble. It 
stands in a square plot of ground, round 
which is a border of neatly-trimmed furze, 
and marks the grave of Mr. Stirling Craw- 

Mr. J. Jewitt's establishment is the first 
we come to. Mr. Jewitt trains for Lord 
Calthorpe and Captain Machell, and the 
Captain has a very charming residence 
adjoining. The principal stables are built 
of stone and cement, relieved with brick, 
and with the fine old tower, with its cling- 
ing ivy — which stands over a well some 
sixty feet deep — the whole picture is strik- 
ing to a high degree. No fewer than sixty- 
three horses can be lodged here, and young 
animals are broken in on an extensive 
meadow at the back. Wending our way 
across the yard, we learn that the black- 
smith's shop here is the only private one in 
Newmarket, He of the brawny arms is 
certainly a fine strapping fellow. From 
a heap of shoes he singles out a plate 
covered ivith dust and rust, but to him 
decidedly precious. He straightens it out 
a bit with his hammer, and holds it up as a 
memento of a famous horse. It was worn 
by Seabreeze, who won the Leger and 
the Oaks, Our friend of the forge shoed 




Humewood, who carried off the Cesare- 
witch, and Harvester, who ran a dead 
heat with St. Gatien for the Derby. 

" A pair of shoes lasts about three weeks 
on the average, sir/' he said, replacing the 
little reminiscence of the triumph of Sea- 
breeze. "Of course the horses don't run 
in ordinary shoes, such as they exercise in. 
Previous to running in the race, the shoes 
are taken off and the plates put on. This 
work is done by two brothers, whose 
special work it is to travel from one meet- 
ing to another for this particular purpose." 
Considering that the fee is 7s. 6d. for 
this, it seems to be a very profitable busi- 
ness. Then the blacksmith opens a door 
leading from the smithy into the "Bath.'* 
We had an excellent opportunity of 
seeing exactly what the " bath " was for j 
the morning was 
rainy, and the 
boys had come in 
soaked from ex- 
ercising on the 

■ In front of a 
great fire, hang- 
ing on huge 
clothes - horses, 
were the boys 1 
garments "steam- 
ing," and the 
coloured horse- 
cloths undergo- 
ing the same 
process of drying. 
" The Bath " is a 
decidedly useful 

institution in wet intra tower am> courti 

weather. We had 

looked in at the harness room — every 
bit and bridle is in order, and every 
single trapping, whether part of the trap- 
pings of The Deemster or Blavatsky is 

known — and were just noting a dozen 
jockeys in embryo struggling with pails 
full to the brim, when an interesting 
spectator, pointing to a little lad, said : 
" //V\s the second smallest in Newmarket, 
sir, and runs the Midget very close for 
quarters of inches." 

The young gentleman referred to as "he" 
answered to the name of Williamson, 
declared his age to be fifteen, and hishe ght 
to be 4ft. 410. He was sketched whilst 
standing the picture of ease and comfort 
at the coachhouse doOT. 

Just opposite the sign-post which directs 
the traveller to Fordham, Soham, and Ely, 
is the house of Mr. Tom Jennings, Sen., 
who trains exclusively for Prince Soltykoff. 
The house and stable are built almost en- 
tirely of red brick, The great square yard, 
round which run 
the stables, has 
in the very cen- 
tre a curiosity in 
its way. It is an 
old railway car- 
riage, and a peep 
inside will reveal 
the fact that it 
is very usefully 
utilised for vari- 
ous domestic pur- 
poses of a culin- 
ary character. 

In the imme- 
diate vicinity are 
Mr. J. Enoch's, 
Mr. Percy Peck's, 
and Mr. Matthew 
Dawson's estab- 
Mr. Percy Peck's place becomes more in- 
teresting from the fact that he lives in the 
late Fred Archer's old home, " Falmouth 
Ilour-L'." The house itself is architecturally 
Original from 




4>iginal from 



striking, and the grounds very beautiful. 
In Archer's time there were no stables 
here except those erected for his own horses ; 
now they are capable of receiving some 
thirty or forty horses, principally owned by 

and brimming over with merriment. The 
head stable lad at one of the principal trainer's 
declared them to be " the best in the world," 
But let the hid who has just joined us speak 
for himself. His chat went a long way to 

Mr. Blundell Maple and Mr. R. Peck. The .prove that the happiness of these boys all 
stables run in a straight stretch, and are rested on — -a horse. 

separated from a well-kept lawn in front by 
the whitest of white palings. 

Mr. Matthew Dawson's stables, " St. 
Alban'sHouse"— which are under thecharge 
of Mr. Briggs — are probably the only ones 
of their kind in Newmarket. There is 
little or no yard attached, but the forty or 
fifty horses in 
training here can 
come to their 
doors and look 
out upon a luxu- 
riant lawn, laid 
out with trees and 
shrubs. Mr. Daw- 
son himself lives 
a little way out 
of Newmarket, at 
Melton House, 
Exning, an illus- 
tration of which 
we give, together 
with Lord Ran- 
dolph Churchill's 
charming coun- 
try r e s i d e n c e, 
Banstead Manor 
at C h e v e 1 e y, 
three miles away. 

It was whilst 
walking along the 
road leading back 
to the town- that 
we fell in with a youngster 
whose intelligent face pro- 
phesied that he might 
possibly throw some little 
light on the life of a stable- 
boy. We had already been 
much impressed by the 
Newmarket stable youths. 
They are, so to speak, 
dotted about the High- 
street at every turn, anil 
are, perhaps, as cute and 
smart as any lads in tliL' 
land. Their very business 
leads them to assume an air of mystery 
which makes their individuality more 
marked, but we must frankly admit (and 
we questioned quite a number of them) 
that their dispositions are hearty and genial 

Horses, sir, I love "em. That's what 
made me leave home. Yer see, sir, if a 
chap once takes to a horse, it's no good 
either him doing anything else, or his 
father putting him to anything else. There's 
hundreds more like me. I left my home, 
just outside London, two and a half years 
ago. We gener- 
ally enter the 
stables about 
fourteen, uud are 
apprenticed for 
five years. By 
that time you can 
generally tell 
what you are 
likely to be fit for. 
But there's a lot 
o' failures in our 
profession. We 
don't all turn out 
to be crack jocks. 
I've heard our 
head lad say as 
how stable lads 
are to be 
found i n 
every part 
of the 
world. We 
art' curly 
risers — five 
sharp in 

the summer. Each boy has his own horse to 
groom and exercise, and we looks after them 
as careful as though they was our own, 
You see, supposing that horse should win. 
Well, I might drop in for a fiver. Healthy ! 





I should think it was. Supposing you got 
up just after the sun, gave a thoroughbred a 
couple of handfuls of corn, jumped on his 
back, and did a couple of hours' gallop over 
the Heath before break- 
fast. You'd have to travel 
many a mile before you'd 

\ come across a 
healthier spot 
than Newmar- 
ket Heath. 
Why, people come here, after they have 
found the sea air no good to them, and 
find the very thing to brighten them up,'' 
and the lad's eyes glistened, and his 
tanned face became more flushed as he 
went on. " When a race is on, the boy 
in charge of a horse takes it away, and 
really lives with it until it comes home 
again. We get six shillings a day for that. 
The regular wages 
vary up to 14s. or 
165., according to the 
time of service. 
Many of us live 'in- 
doors,' that is, on the 
premises, and others 
lodge out. Clothing 
is expensive, and you 
must dress, you know, 
sir. These little 
cricket caps, which 
every lad wears, cost 
3s. 6d., his legging 
half a guinea, and his 
breeches twenty-five 

We had arrived in 
the middle of the 
High -street, and our 
future wearer of the 
pigskin bid us '' good- 
day." It is gratifying 
to learn one thing. 

There is a Stable Lads' fn-aitute in connec- 
tion with All Saints' Schools, where these 
boys may pass a good evening at all kinds 
of games, except cards. We also visited the 
Temperance Hotel, where a score or two of 
lads seemed to be enjoying cups of excel- 
lent coffee, cake, and similar delicacies. In 
the reading - room 
adjoining the tem- 
perance buffet others 
were reading the 
daily, illustrated, 
and sporting papers, 
whilst one youth 
was playing a merry 
air on a piano in the 

It was whilst 
turning back again 
in the direction of 
Mr. John Dawson's, 
Sen., that we wan- 
dered down a little by-street, leading 
from the " Rutland Arms '' — the prin- 
cipal hotel in the town — and came across 
one of the prettiest stables we had seen. 
This was Mr. A. Hayhoe's, who trains 
for Baron A. de Rothschild and Leo- 
pold de Rothschild. Nothing could be 
prettier. The stables are white, with green 
shutters, and creeping plants are every- 
where. In the centre of the yard a bed of 
shrubs has been laid out, in the midst of 
which stands a quaint-looking, old-fashioned 
pigeon-house, surmounted by a weather- 

r D*wsdSEi§j«i.l from 



cock and a jockey on 
horseback. The house — 
where the trainer lives — 
looks on to the yard, an d 

is covered 
with ivy. 
The whole 
scene is a 
picture, and 
more so 
now, for the gravel path has been strewn 
with straw, and the lads are riding round 
in a circle, as a little preliminary to going 
on to the Heath. 

Baron Kothschild's house is exactly oppo- 
site. It is a great square building, the bricks 
of which are almost entirely hidden from 
view by the ivy which runs round every 
window. It stands on the site of the old 
palace, as does also the Congregational 
Church and schoolroom in the immediate 
vicinity. Just here, too, another bit of old 
Newmarket may be met with, West ley's 
yard constitutes the site of a half-dozen old- 
time abodes, with the roof casements of 
long ago. The residents of Westley's yard 
may point to their pump with pride. It 
supplies them with good spring water, and 
is one of the few reminders of bygone days. 
Certainly not the least interesting house 
we visited was that of Mr. John Dawson, 
Sen,, who trains principally for Sir R. 
Jardine, " Warren House " training es- 
tablishment is situated at one corner of 
the Heath — already referred to as being in 
close proximity to the station. An hour or 
two spent here did much to show exactly 
how the work of a training establishment 
is carried on. Previous to going through 
the stables, however, a pretty little incident 

occurred, which 
should find a place 
in these pages. 
We were standing 
for a moment be- 
neath the porch of 
the house, where 
great bunches of 
sea - weed hung, 
those useful ma- 
rine prophets of 
the movements of 
Clerk of the Wea- 
ther. Immediately 
the door was 
opened a bright 
little girl of some 
six summers, in a 
pretty plaid dress 
and frilled white 
pinafore, came 
bounding down 
the stairs, It was 
little Nellie Rose Archer, Now little Miss 
Nellie has a pet donkey, with the simple 
and easily remembered name of Billy. 
Every morning, should the seaweed in the 
porch so decree, Miss Nellie has her pet 
harnessed to the prettiest of diminutive 
wagonettes, and taking the reins, goes for 
her morning drive. 

Billy, be it known, is a racer. A 
short time ago some local sports were taking 
place in Newmarket, in which there was a 
race confined exclusively to donkeys. 
What more natural than that Billy should 
be entered ? Billy was entered, and, what 
is more, won the prize. Great were the 
efforts brought to bear upon little Miss 
Nellie to allow her pet to run in another 
race ; but no, the six -year-old mistress was 
immovable. And why ? Well, we heard 
a part of this story from the child's own 
lips, and when we put this question to her 
the reply was : — 

u Because I wanted Billy to have an tin- 
he a ten record ! " 

Our picture of little Miss Archer (page 
170), for which she specially had the not- 
to-be-beaten Billy harnessed, was expressly 
taken for this magazine. 

The stables at Warren House are admir- 
ably built in white brick, and are of effective 
design. Something like thirty-six horses 
could be stabled here at one time. Passing 
down the stables, painted buff and white, 
some of the boys we observe plaiting the 
straw which makes a neat and trim edging 
for the --tall-, whilst others are grooming 


OF ,' 




their horse*, accompanied by that unex- 
plainable hissing noise. The kicking-boards 
are of hard elm. It is noticeable, too, that 
the pails of the establishment are painted 

with the colours of the trainer. 
The jockeys who ride for this stable invari- 
ably wear a blue jacket and black cap, 
hence the pails arc painted blue, with black 
hoops. This rule seems to be general. 

There are some half-dozen cats about the 
place, and whilst the various horses are 
being pointed out a sight is presented, of 
frequent occurrence here, but highly inter- 
esting to the stranger. Wiseman is a 
beautiful chestnut of six years. The horse 
has a splendid record, and from a u two- 
year old " upwards 
has brought many 
valuable prizes to 
its owner. But 
Wiseman is never 
so happy as when 
a pet cat is lying 
down on the straw 
of its stall and pur- 
ring at its feet. 
The cat, however, 
has strayed from 
its customary place, 
and has managed 
to get on to the 
back of Nickel, 
another horse some 
distance from 
Wiseman's place 

of abode. The cat, moreover, has also 
taken up a kitten with it, and Nickel's 
back presents a most pleasing picture with 

a pair of feline jockeys on it. We stay fur 
a moment to admire Rentpayer, which 
cost 2,350 guineas, and we are by no means 
unmindful of the beauty of Lady Prim- 
rose, a sister of 
Lady Rosebery. 

Then the head 
stable lad imparts 
a htghlysensational 
bit of information. 
It was away back 
to 1875 when 
Prince Bat thy an y's 
Galopin won the 
Derby, Our friend 
here had charge of 
the horse. 4i Why, 
do you know, sir," 
he said, " I slept 
in the same stall 
as that horse did 
for three weeks, so 
as to make sure 
that not a living 
soul got near him ; 
and then when 
the beauty was sent to Epsom to run in the 
great race, and win, sir, as I knew he would, 
although there were a couple of detectives 
watching, yet I stood outside the stable door 
all night. I was rewarded though, sir, 
wasn't I ? Didn't the beauty ride home 
grand ?" 

A sort of trap door above is pointed out 
to us. This is the shoot down which the 
corn comes, and the hay and straw is 
brought down in a similar fashion. Some 
fifteen hundredweight of straw is used 
every week. The granary is over the 
stabfes, as are also the rooms allotted to the 

boys who live on the premises. One 
hundred and forty sacks of oats can be 
easily stored away in the granary, and it ia 




necessary to always have a plentiful supply, 
for, to put it in the words of one of the 
stable lads, " 'orses eat 'earty." It is all a 
mistake to think that horses in training are 
starved. Such is far from the case. They are 
well fed, and always regularly to a moment. 
When a horse is going to run in a race, 
the animal will be kept short of water, and 
it will be sent on its momentous journey 
with a meal of a couple of handfuls of 
oats ; but otherwise, your racing horse farts 
well, and on the best of everything. 

Next to the granary is the " Wardrobe," 
where all the best things are kept. The 
boxes are full of smart clothing, which is 
only worn on special occasions. Then we 
try the weighing machine which is used for 
trial weights, and examine great pieces of 
lead which are strapped into the saddle 

— black and blue. A couple of perambula- 
tors, now no longer needed, are in the far 
corner, one of which is particularly inter- 
esting. It is of wicker work, lined with blue 
satin, and decorated with hand- worked 
flowers. It was brought from America by 
little Miss Archer's father as a present. A 
beautiful cross in Newmarket Cemetery 
marks the grave of poor Archer, where he, 
his wife, and infant son William lie buried. 

"But that's not a race-horse," we ex- 
claim, suddenly coming across an old black 
hack, whose appearance is scarcely so spick 
and span as its neighbours. 

u No," replies our guide, u You see, the 
head lad never rides a horse that is in 
training, but always a hack j" and with this 
information we hurry across the yard, 
down the street leading from the station, 

cloths to make up the necessary weight as 
required. The very saddles which we 
handle are not without interest. Many of 
them are great heavy specimens of the 
saddle-maker's art, weighing 21 lbs., and 
others delicate little samples of workman- 
ship, which are used for racing, and when 
weighed with stirrups and band, and all 
complete, would just about turn the scale 
at 3 lbs. The saddles used when exercising 
the horses weigh 10 lbs. 

Noticing the many effectual appliances 
in case of fire, we pass once more into the 
yard where is Miss Archer's carriage-house. 
The door is drawn back, and there in 
miniature is a victoria and the identical 
wagonette already mentioned. These two 
are painted in the colours of Warren House 

past the Jubilee Clock at the top of the 

It was night when we turned up a narrow 
pathway leading to Lord Durham's train- 
ing establishment, presided over by Mr. 
A. B. Sadler. The bells of St. Mary's, the 
parish church, were ringing merrily, and 
the rooks were making their presence 
known amongst the boughs of the fine 
trees which overlook the meadow at the 
back. The horses were shut up for the 
night, and our reason for coming here was 
to note the aspect of the all-important 
stable at the close of the day. Not a 
sound was to be heard, only the playing of 
the stable boys — for through a window 
looking on to the yard might be seen these 
plavful youths, with their coats and waist- 
Original from 



coats cast aside, boxing, dancing, chatting, 
and indulging in innocent play, whilst their 
laughter was all that disturbed the stillness 
of this picturesque corner. 

Having thus visited many of the prin- 
cipal training establishments, there is plenty 
yet to interest one about the town itself 
The High -street at early morn presents a 
most picturesque sight. Scarcely a vehicle 
is to be seen, the fine wide thoroughfare is 
given up to the horses, who, with the stable 
lads on their backs, are walking slowly in 
the direction of the Heath for their customary 
" before breakfast " exercise. Picture the 
scene in the High -street on the day of a race 

in the olden days) ; the Beacon Course, 
which is practically straight, and is just over 
four miles in length ; and the Rowley Mile, 
a trifle over the mile. These principal 
courses are split up into a score of smaller 
ones, over which special races are run. 

The Post Office at Newmarket is a busy 
place on a big race day. It is not without 
a history, for it was originally a gambling 
house, and though the exterior remains 
just as k was years ago, the interior 
has undergone all the requisite alterations. 
Ten telegraph clerks are employed here at 
ordinary times, but when a great day comes 
round this number is increased to fifty. 

meeting. To really see Newmarket, so to 
speak, at its best, one must visit it on 
such a day, when it is one long procession 
of brakes and four-in-hands, wagonettes 
and dog-carts, and indeed all sorts and con- 
ditions of conveyances on their way to the 
top of the hill where the race-courses are 
situated. There are three principal race- 
courses at Newmarket : the July Course, 
which runs over the Devil's Ditch— (the 
Devil's Ditch, by the bye, is a cutting in the 
Wash, very much tike a railway cutting, 
with all the ground thrown up on one side. 
It runs for several miles, and tradition says 
that it was a popular resort forcockfighting 

They will de:^ patch and receive over ten 
thousand messages on a single day, and 
nearly thirty messengers will be re- 

It is probable, however, that the most 
important as well as the most interesting 
building in Newmarket is the Jockey Club. 
Its exclusiveiiess is well known, but, as we 
were enabled to pass through its various 
rooms, a description of them and their con- 
tents may go far to satisfy those curiously 
inclined. The premises of the Jockey Club are 
almost exactly opposite the Post Office, and 
aredistinguishable on account of their unpre- 
tentious aspect. Inside, the furnishing is 
more simple still. Every room is furnished, 
with one exception, in the same style — 
mahogany, upholstered in brown Rusfiian 
leather ; the reading-room alone has green 
leather in place of brown. The entrance is 
through a long passage, the entire length 
of which is white enamel, charmingly 
decorated with a fresco. Here is the Com- 
mittee-room. Over the mantel-board — 
exquisitely carved — is a picture of a horse 
which won thirty-seven races. A bust of 
Admiral Rous is near the window, and 
there are pictures, too, of the late Duke 
Original from 



"^oo , f L1 " KN0WN JOCKEY ^Original from 


of Portland and the ]ate Duke of 
Richmond, Round the sides of the room 
are portraits of all the members. That 
nearest the door is interesting ; it is the only 
portrait there of which the original is living 
— the present Duke of Richmond. A mag- 
nificent cut glass chandelier hangs from 
the ceiling. 

The dining-room is a fine apartment. 
There is a picture of Ormonde, and a 
canvas depicting the 
first racecourse at 
Newmarket, pre- 
sented by the Duke 
of Beaufort. The two 
marble fireplaces are 
of the period of Queen 
Anne, and in a far 
corner is a huge 
champagne urn, 
carved in mahogany, 
and lined with silver, 
which, it is said, has 
not been filled for over 
twenty years. It was 
filled the first night 
it was presented, The 
coffee-room — an ob- 
long apartment — con- 
tains a life-size por- 
trait of Admiral Rous, 
with top-boots and 
riding whip. It bears 
the inscription: 
11 Presented to Ad- 
miral the Hon, Henry 
John Rous by the 
jockey Club and 

members of Tattersall's Room, June 18, 
1886, as part of the testimonial subscribed 
by them in grateful acknowledgment of 
his long and valuable services on the Turf," 
The reading-room stands on the site of the 
old courtyard, years ago part of the street. 
The library (arranged on four bookshelves) 
over the mantelpiece consists of a great 
number of volumes of a sporting nature. 
The card-room looks on to a fine tennis 
lawn, and the little 
card- tables, covered 
with green baize, with 
spaces at the corners 
for the insertion of 
silver candelabra, are 
freely scattered about. 
A picture of the July 
Course hangs hem, 
which Lord Falmouth 
pronounced to be by 

Looking out of the 
great French windows, 
one has a good view of 
the residential cham- 
bers of the members 
of the great Sporting 
Club when staying at 
Newmarket. It is a 
handsome building of 
red brick, which runs 
the length of the lawn, 
contains some fifty 
'h, rooms, and reached 

by a passage from the 
Club, the walls of 

iginal fnSW* contain man >' 



small Hogarths. The first suite nearest 
to the Club premises are those used 
by the Prince of Wales. They are very 
quietly furnished 111 light wood, and 
the decorative portion h principally con- 
fined to a few pictures and odd knick- 
knacks in china. Amongst others who 
have rooms here are the Duke of Cam- 
bridge, Duke of Beaufort, Sir Frederick 
Johnstone, General Owen Williams, Mr. 
Chaplin, and other staunch supporters of 
the Turf. 

We give por- 
traits of as many 
of our leading 
jockeys as we 
could possibly 
find room for, and 
also those of some 
of the principal 
trainers. Mr. 

John Porter, to 
whom no pre- 
vious referetice 
has been made, is 
ctere stables, and, 
amongst others, 
trains for the Prince of 
Wales, Duke of Westmin- 
ster, and Baron Hirsch. Mr. 
J. Ryan has the largest 
stables in Newmarket, at 
Green Lodge, and he looks 
after the interests of Mr. 
Douglas Baird, Mr. J. H. 
Houldsworth, and other 
owners. Mr. Robert Sher- 
wood has horses belonging 
to Lord R. Churchill, Lord 
Dunraven, Colonel North, 
Colonel Monta- 
gue, and Mr. 
Brydges Williams. 
A peep into Mr. 
Sherwood's hall 
discloses a fairy- 
land. Flowers are 
everywhere, hang- 
ing in baskets, 
creeping round 
pillars, and 
gathered round 
fairy lamps. A 
pair of weighing scales find a place,, 
and on either side of the hall are 
paintings of St. Gatieu — trained by Mr, 
Sherwood — and Harvester, who ran 
level for first place in the Derby of |88^. 

A portrait of the gentleman familiarly 
known as Mr. " Judge ,1 Clark will be in- 
teresting to many. Mr. Clark resides at 
Newmarket, and until his retirement from 
the position was " judge" of the races for 
something like a period of fifty years. The 
view, too, at TattersaU's sale yard on a busy 
day will give a good idea of this famous 
resort, in which horses are bought for 
fabulous prices who afterwards win very 
little, and horses are bought for very little 
who afterwards win fortunes. '* Year- 
lings," said the late Mr. Merry when 
he purchased Doncaster, '* are a 
fearful tottery " ; and the event 
proved the truth of the remark, 
for he was drawing a prize and did 
not know it — he was, in fact, for 
a sum of 950 guineas, purchasing 

the Derby winner of 1873. Thormanby, 
the Derby winner of i860, which belonged 
to Mr. Merry, cost only £1 50. Voltigeur 
and Caractacus fetched less than 300 
guineas each. Kettledrum was obtained 




for 3?o guineas. Early Bird's price was 
only 70 guineas. The blood stock from 
which yearlings descend is of proportionate 
value. Formosa changed hands at 4,000 
guineas, Scottish Chief was bought for 
K,ooo guineas, and Blair Athol, described 
by Mr. Tattersall, when he was led into 
the sale ring, as "the best horse in the 
world," was purchased for ^r 2,000, Don- 
caster, whose yearling price we have 

already mentioned, changed hands for 

£ 14,500. 

In conclusion, thanks are due to all those 
who so readily assisted the writer in 
gathering the information required for this 
article, and without whose help it would 
have been impossible to have written as 
varied an account of Newmarket as we 
have been able to give, in the space at our 


Original from 

The Prisoner of Assiout. 

By Grant 

'T was a sultry December day 
at Medinet Habu. Grey haze 
spread dim over the rocks in 
the desert. The arid red 
mountains twinkled and 
winked through the heated 
air. I was weary with climbing the great 
dry ridge from the Tombs of the Kings. 
I sat on the broken arm of a shattered 
granite Rameses, My legs dangled over 
the side of that colossal fragment. In front 
of me vast colonnades stood out clear and 
distinct against the hot, white sky. Beyond 
lay bare hills ; in the distance, to 
the left, the muddy Nile, amid 
green fields, gleamed like a thin 
silver thread in the sunlight. 

A native, in a single dirty gar- 
ment, sat sunning himself on a 
headless sphynx hard by. He 
was carving a water-melon with 
his knife— thick, red, ripe, juicy. 
I eyed it hard. With a gesture 
of Oriental politeness, 
he offered me a slice. 
It was too tempting to 
refuse, that baking hot 
day, in that rainless 
land, though I knew 
acceptance meant ten 
times its worth in the 
end in backsheesh. 

u Arabi ? 1! I asked 
inquiringly of my 
Egyptian friend, which 
is, being interpreted, 
"Are you a Musul- 
man ? " 

He shook his head 
firmly, and pointed with 
many nods to the tiny 
blue cross tattooed on 
his left wrist. "Nusrani," 
hn answered, with a look 
of some pride. I smiled 
my acquiescence. He was a Nazarene, a 

In a few minutes' time we had fallen into 
close talk of Egypt, past and present ; the 
bad old days ; the British occupation ; the 
effect of strong government on the con- 
dition of the fellahin. To the Christian 
population of the Nile valley, of course, 

the advent of the English has been a social 
revolution. For ages down-trodden, op- 
pressed, despised, these Coptic schismatics 
at last find themselves suddenly, in the ends 
of the earth, co-religionists with the new 
ruling class in the country, and able to 
boast themselves in many ways over theii 
old Moslem masters. 

I speak but little colloquial Arabic my- 
self, though I understand it with ease when 
it is spoken, so the conversation between 
us was necessarily somewhat one-sided. But 
my Egyptian friend soon grew voluble 

enough for two, and the sight of the piastres 
laid in his dusky palm loosed the strings of 
his tongue to such an alarming extent that 
I began to wonder before long whether I 
should ever get back again to the Luxor 
Hotel in time for dinner. 

" Ah, yes, excellency," my Copt said 
slowly, when I asked him at last about the 





administration of justice under Ismail's 
rule, " things were different then, before 
the English came, as Allah willed it. It 
was stick, stick, stick, every month of the 
year. No prayers availed ; we were beaten 
for everything. If a fellah didn't pay his 
taxes when crops were bad, he was lashed 
till he found them ; if he was a Christian, 
and offended the least Moslem official, he 
was stripped to the skin, and ruthlessly 
bastinadoed. And then, for any insubordi- 
nation, it was death outright — hanging or 
beheading, slash, so, with a scimitar." And 
my companion brought his hand round in 
a whirl with swishing force, as if he were 
decapitating some unseen criminal on the 
bare sand before him. 

" The innocent must often have been 
punished with the guilty," I remarked, in 
my best Arabic, looking vaguely across at 

"Ah, yes," he assented, smiling. "So 
Allah ordained. But sometimes, even then, 
the saints were kind ; Ave got off unexpec- 
tedly. I could tell you a strange story that 
once happened to myself." His eyes 
twinkled hard. " It was a curious adven- 
ture," he went on ; " the effendi might like, 
perhaps, to hear it. I was condemned to 
death, and all but executed. It shows the 
wonderful ways of Allah." 

These Coptic Christians, indeed, speaking 
Arabic as they do, and living so constantly 
among a Musulman population, have im- 
bibed many Mahomedan traits of thought, 
besides the mere accident of language, such 
as speaking of the Christian God as Allah. 
Fatalism has taken as strong a hold of their 
minds as of Islam itself. " Say on," I 
answered lightly, drawing a cigarette from 
my case. " A story is always of interest to 
me, my friend. It brings grist to the mill. 
I am a man of the pen. I write down in 
books all the strange things that are told 

My Egyptian smiled again. " Then this 
tale of mine," he said, showing all his white 
teeth, and brushing away the flics from his 
sore eye as he spoke, " should be worth 
you money, for ii's as strange as any of 
the Thousand and One Nights men tell for 
hire at Cairo. It happened to me near 
Assiout, in Ismail's days. I was a bold 
young man then — too bold for Egypt. My 
father had a piece of ground by the river 
side that was afterwards taken from us by 
Ismail for the Daira. 

" In our village lived a Sheikh, a very 
hard man ; a Musulman, an Arab, a de- 

scendant of the Prophet. He was the 
greatest Sheikh for miles and miles around. 
He had a large white house, with green 
blinds to the windows, while all the rest of 
us in his government lived in mud-built 
huts, round and low like beehives. He 
had date palms, very many, and doums, 
and doura patches. Camels were his, and 
buffaloes, and asses, and cows ; 'twas a very 
rich man ; oh, so rich and powerful. When 
he went forth to town he rode on a great 
white mule. And he had a harem, too ; 
three wives of his own, who were beautiful 
as the day — so girls who had seen them 
said, for as for us, we saw them not — plump 
women every one of them, as the Khedive's 
at Cairo, with eyes like a gazelle's, marked 
round with kohl, and their nails stained red 
every day with henna. All the world said 
the Sheikh was a happy man, for he had 
the finest dates of the country to eat, and 
servants and camels in plenty to do his 

" Now, there was a girl in our village, a 
Nusrani like me, a beautiful young girl ; 
and her name was Laila. Her eyes were 
like those of that child there — Zanobi — who 
carries the effendi's water-gourd on her 
head, and her cheeks were round and soft 
as a grape after the inundation. I meant 
to wed her ; and she liked me well. In the 
evening we sat and talked together under 
the whispering palm-trees. But when the 
time drew near for me to marry her, and I 
had arranged with her parents, there came 
a message from the Sheikh. He had seen 
the girl by the river as she went down to 
draw water with her face unveiled, and, 
though she was a Nusrani, she fired his 
soul, and he wished to take her away from 
me to put her into his harem. 

" When I heard that word I tore my 
clothes in my rage, and, all Christian that 
I was, and of no account with the Moslems, 
I went up to the Sheikh's house in a very 
white anger, and I fell on my face and 
asked leave to see him. 

" The Sheikh sat in his courtyard, inside 
his house, and gave audience to all men, 
after the fashion of Islam. I entered, and 
spoke to him. ' Oh, Sheikh,' I said, boldly, 
' Allah and the Khedive have prospered you 
with exceeding great prosperity. You have 
oxen and asses, buffaloes and camels, men- 
servants and maid-servants, much millet 
and cotton and corn and sugar-cane ; you 
drink Frank wine every day of your life, 
and eat the fat of the land ; and your harem 
is full of benutr't ' -vomen. Now in the 





village where I live is a Nusrani girl, whose 
name is Laila. Her eyes are bright toward* 
mine, and I love her as the thirsty land 
loves water. Yet, hear, O Sheikh ; word 
is brought me now that you wish to take 
this girl, who is mine ; and I come to plead 
with you to-day as Nathan the Prophet 
pleaded with David, the King of the Beni 
Israel. If you take away from me my Latla, 

my one ewe lamb ' 

11 Hut. at the word, the Sheikh rose up, 
and clenched his fist, and was very angry. 
1 Who is this dog, 1 he asked, ' that he should 
dare to dictate to me ? ' He called to his 
slaves that waited on his nod. ' Take this 
fellow,' he cried in his anger, * and tie him 
hand and foot, and flog him as I bid on his 
naked back, that he may know, being a 
Christian, an infidel dog, not to meddle 
with the domestic affairs of Moslems, It 
were well he were made acquainted with 
his own vileuess by the instrumentality of 
a hundred lashes. And go to-morrow and 
bring Laila to me, and take care that this 
Copt shall never again set eyes on her ! ? 

" Well, effendi, at the words, three strong 
Arabs seized me — fierce sons of the desert — 
and bound me hand and foot, and beat me 
with a hundred lashes of the 
kurbash till my soul was sick 
and faint within me. I swooned 
with the disgrace and with the 
severity of the blows. And 
1 was young in those days. 
And I was very angry. 

" That night I 
went home to 
my own mud 
hut, with black 
•iU ttj Mood in my 

heart, and took 
counsel with my 
brother Sivgeh 
how I should 
avenge this in- 
sult. But first I 
sent word by my 
brothf r to Laila'* 
hut that Laila's 
father should 
bring her to meet 
us in the dusk, 
in very great 
secrecy, ' by the 
bank of the river. 
In the grey twi- 
light she came 
down, A daha- 
biah war- passing, 
and in it was a foreigner, a very great 
prince, an American prince of great wealth 
and wisdom. I remember his name even. 
Perhaps the effendi knows him. He was 
Cyrus P. Ouackenboss, and he came from 

" I have not the honour," I answered, 
smiling at this very unexpected Western 

" Well, anyhow," my Copt c mtinued, 
unheeding my smile, " we hailed the 
dahabiah, and made the American prince 
understand how the matter stood. He was 
very kind. We were brother Christians. 
He took Laila on board, and promised to 
deliver her sale to her aunt at Karnak, h> 
that the Sheikh might not know where the 
girl was gone, nor send to fetch her. And 
the counsel I took next with my brother 
was this. In the dead of night I rose up 
from my hut, and put a mask of white 
linen over the whole of mv face, to ccnjeal 
my features, and stole out alone, with a, 
thick stick in my hands, and went to the 
Sheikh's h<>>:,:. down by the bank of the 



river. As T went, the jackals prowled 
around the village for food, and the owls 
from the tombs flitted high in the moon- 

" I broke into the Sheikh's room by the 
flat-roofed outhouse that led to his window, 
and I locked the door ; and there, before 
the Sheikh could rouse his household, I 
beat him, blow for blow, within an inch of 
his life, in revenge for my own beating, and 
because of his injustice in trying to take 
my Laila from me. The Sheikh was a 
powerful man, with muscles like iron, and 
he grappled me hard, and tried to wrench 
the stick from me, and bruised me about 
the body by flinging me on the ground ; 
and I was weak with my beating, and very 
sore all over. Rut still, being by nature a 
strong young man, very fierce with anger, 
J fought him hard, and got him under in 
the end, and thwacked him till he was as 
black and blue as I myself was, one mass of 
bruises from head to foot with my cudgel- 
ling. Then, just as his people succeeded in 
forcing the door, I jumped out of the 
window upon the flat-roofed outhouse, and 
leapt lightly to the ground, and darted like 
a jackal across the open cotton -fields and 
between the plots of doura to my own little 

hut on the outskirts of the village, I 
reached there panting, and I knew the 
Sheikh would kill me for my daring. 

" Next morning, early, the Sheikh sent 
to arrest me. He was blind with rage and 
with effect of the blows : his face was livid, 
and his cheeks purple. ' By the beard of 
the Prophet, Athanasio,* he said to me, hit- 
ting me hard on the cheek— my name is 
Athanasio, effendi. after our great patriarch 
— 'your blood shall flow for this, you dog 
of a Christian. You daretoassault the wearer 
of a green turban, a prince in Islam, a 
descendant of the Prophet ! You shall suffer 
for it, you cur ! Your base blood shall flow 
for it 1 ' 

"I cast myself down, like a slave, on the 
ground before him— though I hated him 
like sin : for it is well to abase oneself in 
due time before the face of authority. 
Besides, by that time, Laila was safe, and 
that was all I cared about. ' Suffer for 
what, my Sheikh ? ' I cried, as though 
I knew not what he meant. ' What have 
I done to your Excellency ? Who has told 
you evil words concerning your poor ser- 
vant ? Who has slandered me to my lord, 
that he is so angry against me ? ' 

■' ■ Take him away ! ' roared the Sheikh to 




the three strong Arabs. ' Carry him off to 
be tried before the Cadi at Assiout.' 

" For even in Ismail's days, you see, 
effendi, before the English came, the 
Sheikh himself would not have dared to 
put me to death untried. The power of 
life and death lay with the Cadi at Assiout. 

(i So they took me to Assiout, into the 
mosque of AH, where the Cadi sat at the 
scat of judgment, and arraigned me hefore 
him a week later. There the Sheikh 
appeared, and bore witness against me. 
Those who spoke for me pleaded that, as 
the Sheikh himself admitted, the man who 
broke into his room, and banged him sci 
hard, had his face covered with a linen 
cloth ; how, then, could the Sheikh, in the 
hurry and the darkness, be sure he recog- 
nised me ? Perhaps it was some other, 
who took this means to ruin me. But the 
Sheikh, for his part, swore by Allah, and 
by the Holy Stone of the Kaa'ba at Mecca, 
that he saw me distinctly, and knew it was 
I. The moonlight through the window 
revealed my form to him. And who else 
in the village but me had a grudge against 
his justice ? 

"The Cadi was convinced. The Cadi 
gave judgment. I w T as guilty of rebellion 
against the Sheikh and against ul-Islam ; 
and, being a dog of a Christian, unworthy 
even to live, his judgment was that after 
three days' time I should be beheaded in 
the prison court of Assiout. 

"You may guess, effendi, whether 
or not I was anxious. But Laila was 
safe ; and to save my girl from that 
wretch's harem I was ready, for my 
part, to endure anything. 

M Two nights long I lay awake 
and thought strange things by my- 
self in the whitewashed cells of the 
jail at Assiout. The governor of the 
prison, who was a European — an 
Italian, he called himself — and a 
Christian of Roum, of those who 
obey the Pope, was very kind indeed 
tu i iK'. He knew me belore (for I had 
worked in his fields), and was sorry 
when I told him the tale about Laila. 
But what would you have ? Those 
were Ismail's days. It was 
the law of Islam, He 
could not prevent it. 

" On the third evening, 
my brother came round to 
the prison to see me. He 
came with many tears in 
his eyes, bringing evil 
tidings. My poor old 
father, he said, was dying 
at home with grief. They 
didn't expect he would live 
till morning. And Laila, 
too, had stolen back from 
Karnak un perceived, and 
was in hiding in the village. She wished 
to sec me just once before I died. But if 
she came to the prison, the Sheikh would 
find her out, and carry her off in triumph 
to his own harem. 

'* Would the governor give me leave to 
go home just that one night, to bid farewell 
to Laila and to my dying father ? 

" Now, the governor, excellency, was a 
very humane man. And though he was a 
Christian of Roum, not a Copt like us, he 
was kind to the Copts as his brother 
Christians. He pondered awhile to him- 
self, and roped his moustache thus ; then 
he said to me : 

" ' Athanasio, you are an honest man ; 
the execution is fixed for eight by the 
clock ■ to-morrow morning. If 1 give you 
leave to go home to your father to-night, 
will you pledge me your word of honour 




before St. George and the saints, to return 
before seven ? ' 

" ' Effendi,' I said, kissing his feet, ' you 
are indeed a good man. I swear by the 
mother of God and all the saints that dwell 
in heaven, that if you let me go, I will 
come back again a full hour before the 
time fixed for the execution.' And I meant 
it, too, for I only wished before I died to 
say good-bye once more to Laila. 

" Well, the governor took me secretly 
into his own house, and telling me many 

am to break my word of honour Lo ths 
governor of the prison. 1 

" 'That isn't it,' he made reply. ' I have 
a plan of my own which I will proceed in 
words to make clear before you.' 

" What happened next would be long to 
relate, effendi," But I noticed that the 
fellah's eyes twinkled as he spoke, like one 
who passes over of set purpose an important 
episode. " All I need tell you now is, that 
the whole night through the good gover- 
nor lay awake, wondering whether or not X 

time?; over that be trusted to my honour, 
and would lose hi* place if it were known 
he had let me go, he put me forth, with my 
brother, by his own private door, making 
me swear on no account to be late for the 

" As soon as I got outside, I said to my 
brother, ' Tell mc, Sirgeh, at whose house 
is Laila ? ' 

" And my brother answered and smiled, 
1 Laila is still at Karnak, where we sent her 
for safety, and our father is well, But I 
have a plan for your escape that I think 
will serve you.' 

u i Never ! ' I cried, horror-struck, ' if I 

would come home to lime, and blaming 
himself in his heart for having given Mich 
leave to a mere condemned criminal. Still, 
effendi, though I am but poor, I am a man 
of honour. As the clock struck six in the 
prison court next morning, I knocked at 
the governor's window with the appointed 
signal ; and the governor rose, and let me 
in to my cell, and praised me for my honour, 
and was well pleased to see me. ' I knew, 
Athanasio,' he said, roping his moustache 
once more, 'you were a man to be trusted.' 
" At eight o'clock they took me out into 
the courtyard. The executioner was there 
already, a gjfea^black Nubian, with a very 




sharp scimitar. It was terrible to look 
around ; I was greatly frightened. L Surely," 
said I to myself, ' the bitterness of death is 
past. But Lai la is saved ; and I die for 

14 1 knelt down and bent my head. I 
feared, after all, no respite was coming. 
The executioner stood forth and raised the 
scimitar in his hand. I almost thought I 
heard it swish through the air j I saw the 
bright gleam of the blade as it descended. 
But just at that moment, as the executioner 
delayed, a loud commotion arose in the 

voice again he cried to the executioner, 
' In Allah's name, Hassan, let there be no 
execution ! ' 

"The lookers-on, to right and left, raised 
a mighty cry, and called out with one voice. 
'The Sheikh! The Sheikh! Who can 
have thus disfigured him ? ' 

iJ But the Sheikh himself came forward 
in great pain, like one whose bones ache, 
and, dismounting from the mule, spoke 
aloud to the governor, ' In Allah's name,' 
he said, trembling, ' let this man go ; he is 
innocent. I swore to him falsely, though 

outer court. 1 raised my head and listened. 
We heard a voice cry, ' In Allah's name, let 
me in. There must be no execution ! f The 
gates opened wideband into the innercourt- 
yard there rode with long strides a great 
white mule, and on its back, scarcely able to 
sit up, a sorry figure ! 

" He was wrapped round in bandages, 
and swathed from head to foot like a 
man sore wounded. His lace was bruised, 
and his limbs swollen. But he upheld one 
.hand in solemn warning, and in .1 loud 

I believed it to be true. For see, last night, 
about twelve o'clock, the self-same dog who 
broke into my house before, entered my 
room, with violence, through the open 
window. He carried in his hands the self- 
same stick as last time, and had his face 
covered, as ever, with a linen cloth. And 
I knew by his figure and his voice he was 
the very same dog that hid previously 
beaten me. But before I could cry aloud 
to rouse the house, the infidel had fallen 
upon me en^jr^pffeftnd thwacked me, as 




you see, within an inch of my life, and 
covered me with bruises, and then bid me 
take care how I accused innocent people like 
Athanasio of hurting me. And after that 
he jumped through the open window and 
went away once more. And I was greatly 
afraid, fearing the wrath of Allah, if I let 
this man Athanasio be killed in his stead, 
though he is but an infidel. And I rose 
and saddled my mule very early, and rode 
straight into Assiout, to tell you and the 
Cadi 1 had borne false witness, and to 
save myself from the guilt of an innocent 
soul on my shoulders.' 

" Then all the people around cried out 
with one voice, 'A miracle! a miracle!' 
And the Sheikh stood trembling beside, 
yf\\h faintness and with terror. 

" But the governor drew me a few paces 

'' 4 Athanasio, you rascal,' he said, half 
laughing, ' it is you that have done this 
thing ! It is you that have assaulted him ! 

You got out last night on your word of 
honour on purpose to play this scurvy 
trick upon us! ' 

" ' Effendi,' I made answer, bowing low, 
' life is sweet ; he beat me, unjustly, first, 
and he would have taken my Laila from 
me. Moreover, I swear to you, by St. 
George and the mother of God, when I left 
the prison last night I really believed my 
father was dying.' 

" The governor laughed again. * Well, 
you can go, you rogue,' he said. ' The 
Cadi will soon come round to deliver you. 
But I advise you to make yourself scarce as 
fast as you can, for sooner or later this trick 
of yours may be discovered. I can't tell 
upon you, or I would lose my place. But 
you may be found out, for all that. Go, at 
once, up the river.' 

" That is my hut that you see over 
yonder, effendi, where Laila and I live. 
The Sheikh is dead. And the English 
are now our real lords in Egypt." 

Original from 

The Music of Birds. 

T this season of the yeir there 
is no necessity to say one 
word in praise of our song 
birds. Their notes are to be 
heard on every hand, in deli- 
cious profusion. Whether it 
is the rich warbling of the thrush and 
blackbird, the thrilling song of the skylark, 
the sweet, low voice of the wood- pigeon, or 
the " link'd sweetness, long drawn out," of 
the nightingale, there is a charm of rich 
variety, which is always pleasing. It is 
difficult to put their melody into music. 
The timbre of the tone cannot be actually 
approached by any musical instrument. 
Then, again, they are mostly very untrue — 
musically— in their singing. The thrush is 

the great exception. The first three notes 
of his song descend in perfect seconds, with 
a purity of tone unsurpassable— a quality 
strikingly absent amongst most of the 
feathered songsters. They find a response 
(the principle of true melody) in the ascend- 
ing tones immediately following. 

What has been attempted here is to give 
an idea of the construction of the songs of 
the chief British birds, showing that there 
is a certain method in the singing, and 
that it is based on melodic principles. No 
satisfactory result will be obtained by play- 
ing them on a piano, the piano being the 
least realistic approach to a bird-note. But 
whistled " under the breath," it gives a 
good imitation in proper tonalty. 


The blackbird's 
song is distinguished 
from that of the thrush 
by being pitched in a 
lower key, by less 
abruptness, and an 


apparent want of freedom in delivery. It 
is the baritone among birds. The strain is, 
nevertheless, rich and mellow. On being 
disturbed, it utters a sharp, chattering, long- 
eontinued cry, which ceases when it has 
gained a place of safety. In captivity it 
can be taught to whistle a variety of tunes, 

and even to imitate the human voice. It 
is astonishing what amount of variation of 
emphasis and tone it can give to the same 
note. Even in its native state the black- 
bird is something of a mimic, and will 
imitate the notes of other birds with re- 
markable accuracy, even teaching itself to 
crow like a cock, and to cackle like 
a hen. Original from 


«8 S 

The canary has much of the nightingale's 
and skylark's song. In freedom each flock 
has its own song. In captivity the quality 
varies largely, some uttering soft and 

borne in mind that no caged canary sings 
a natural note — that is t the habitual strain 
of the wild race. In the illustration given 
can be traced a similarity of method in the 


agreeable notes, and others indulging in a 
succession of noisy bursts. Those are most 
valued that introduce most passages from 
the song of the nightingale. It should be 

opening notes to that of the nightingale, 
A canary can, however, be taught to 
imitate the notes of almost any bird, or to 
pipe, like a trained bull finch, a bar or two 
of a popular air, and even to speak a few 
words, though this is very rare in a wild 
state. The colour of a canary, like its song, 
is quite different from that which it 
acquires in captivity, being a kind of 
dappled olive-green ; but the bird-fanciers, 
by careful selection, are able to produce 
canaries of almost every tint between black, 
green, and yellow. 


The linnet's song is lively and varied, then bursting simultaneously into one 
and no bird is so easily tamed. When con- general chorus, then again resuming their 
fined with other birds it readily learns their single strains, and once more joining in 

song. In the winter linnets may be seen 
congregating towards the close of a fine 
winter evening, pluming themselves in the 
last rays of the sun, chirruping the com- 
mencement of their vesper song ; and 

chorus. In the caged linnet the strain is 
rapid and varied ; often a prolonged ex- 
temporising most difficult to represent 
accurately. 0rigjna|fram 




The skylark, or laverock, is deservedly 
conspicuous among our singing birds, and 
is the only one that warbles while on the 
wing. As it leaves its ground nest and 
almost perpendicularly, by successive jumps, 
rises higher and higher, it indulges 

English bird. It is a fact not generally 
known, that as it rises it makes a correspond- 
ing crescendo, not, however, sufficiently 
marked to counteract the natural diminu- 
endo of increasing distance. Then, after 
passing out of sight, the bird drops as if 

gush of cheerful song unequalled by any exhausted, only to mount and sing again. 

The goldfinch is a rapid singer, and can 
be taught to pipe like the bullfinch. It 
has, however, a natural song of its own, of 

which an indication is here given. Gold- 
finches delight to sing in chorus, and there 
are few prettier sights than a cloud of 
these birds fluttering along a hedge, 
chasing the thistle-down as it is whirled 
away by the breeze, and uttering aii the 
while their merry sweet notes. 





The bullfinch in its natural state is by and these the birds will pipe perfectly as 

no means remarkable as a songster, but its to time and tune. The teacher keeps his 

birds separate, 

power of imitation is so remarkable that it 
can be taught to pipe tunes with the sweet- 
ness and intonation of a clarionet. In 
Germany, where the finest piping bull- 
finches come from, boys aTe employed to 
pipe to the birds the whole day long. The 
consequence is that most of the bullfinches 
heard here pipe German airs. The two 
" free "tunes mostly affected in this country 
are " The Mousetrap " and M Polly Perkins/' 

■J funk 

while giving a mechanical precision of note, 
gives also a total absence of feeling. If they 
are permitted to hear other birds while 
being taught, they are apt to jumble up 
foreign notes with the air which they are 
learning, in a most absurd manner. 


The sparrow is by no means a contemp- first thing in the morning ; and they often 
tible songster, its strain being soft, sweet, unite in a chattering chorus. It is but a 
and varied. Its lively chirp is heard from note and a grace note, uttered first by one 

and then another ; but 
/t < '. the ensemble is pretty 

**-% and musical. 

Original from 



The peculiar note of the cuckoo is well been compared to the sound made by pour- 
known, but it is not always recognised that ing water out of a narrow-necked bottle, 
the note changes according to the time of Robert Browning, in one of his poems 

speaks of 

u That one word 
.... , i)( . In the minor third 

There is iune but the cuckoo knows.." 

It will be seen, however, from 
the mane here given, that the 

year, being at first full and clear, but to- 
wards the middle of August becoming 
hesitating, hoarse, and broken. The voice 
of a female cuckoo is quite distinct from 
the well-known note of the male, and has 

cuckoo's "one word" is not a minor third, 
but a major fourth. 


The thrush, or throstle (called by the losing its liberty, generally forfeits its origin- 
Scotch, mavis), is distinguished among ality, being easily influenced by and adopt- 
British singing birds by the clearness and ing the notes of other birds, and, what is 
fulness of its note. Its song is exceedingly still more remarkable, their style and 
sweet, and wonderfully varied. Moreover, attitudes when singing. Thus, a thrush 
it begins earlier in the year, and continues has been seen singing like a robin, and 
later than any other songster, while vie- imitating, not only its note?, but its manner 
ing with the nightingale in the lateness of of drooping its head and tail. 

its daily song. 
It will be found 
that there is 
much more free- 
dom of style, as 
well as of origin- 
ality of treatment, in the 
song of the wild bird than 
in that of the caged one ; 
yet, in both instances, the purity of 
tone is, perhaps, the most remark- 
able feature. The caged thrush, in 

Original from 




The illustration of the "coo" of the *^°Z, 

dove may not be uninteresting. It is not 

at all unmusical, but shows that the word musical sound. Its laugh— which inghtens 

generally used does little justice to the other birds— is very amusmg. 


The nightingale shares with the lark the of strength, and ends with a dying cadence, 

honours of poesy. Though sometimes dwell- Sometimes a rapid succession of brilliant 

ing for minutes on a strain composed of only sounds terminates by detached ascending 

two or three melancholy tones, beginning KOtcs ; while, again, as many as twenty- 

with a mezza voce, it swells gradually, by a four different ftrain* may be reckoned in 

mast perfect crescendo, to the highest point one song of a fine nightingale. 


Original from 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 



HAD called upon my friend, 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one 
day in the autumn of last 
year, and found him in deep 
conversation with a very stout, 
florid-faced, elderly gentle- 
man, with fiery red hair. With an apology 
for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, 
when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the 
room, and closed the door behind me. 

11 You could not possibly have come at 
a better time, my dear Watson," he said 

" I was afraid that you were engaged." 

" So I am. Very much so." 

"Then I can wait in the next room." 

M Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wil- 
son, has been my partner and helper in 
many of my most successful cases, and I 
have no doubt that he will be of the utmost 
use to me in yours also." 

The stout gentleman half rose from his 
chair, and gave a bob of greeting, with a 
quick little question- 
ing glance from his 
small, fat-encircled 

'' Try the settee," 
said Holmes, relaps- 
ing into his armchair, 
and putting his finger- 
tips together, as was 
his custom when in 
judicial moods. " I 
know, my dear Wat- 
son, that you share 
my love of all that is 
bizarre and outside 
the conventions and 
humdrum routine of 
every -day life. You 
have shown your 
relish for it by the 
enthusiasm which has 
prompted you to 
chronicle, and, if you 
will excuse my saving 
so, somewhat to 'em- 
bellish so many of 
my own little ad- 

M Your cases have indeed been of the 
greatest interest to me," I observed. 

u You will remember that I remarked the 
other day, just before we went into the very 
simple problem presented by Miss Mary 
Sutherland, that for strange effects and ex- 
traordinary combinations we must go to life 
itself, which is always far more daring than 
any effort of the imagination." 

" A proposition which I took the liberty 
of doubting.'" 

" You did, Doctor, but none the less you 
must come round to my view, for otherwise 
I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, 
until your reason breaks down under them 
and acknowledges me to be right. Now, 
Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good 
enough tocall upon me this morning,and to 
begin a narrative which promises to be one 
of the most singular which I have listened 
to for some time. You have heard me re- 
mark that the strangest and most unique 
things are very often connected not with 

Original from 



the larger but with the smaller crimes, and 
occasionally, indeed, where there is room 
for doubt whether any positive crime has 
been committed. As far as I have heard, it 
is impossible for me to say whether the 
present case is an instance of crime or not, 
but the course of events is certainly among 
the most singular that I have ever listened 
to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have 
the great kindness to recommence your 
narrative. I ask you, not merely because 
my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the 
opening part, but also because the peculiar 
nature of the story makes me anxious to 
have every possible detail from your lips. 
As a rule, when I have heard some slight 
indication of the course of events I am able 
to guide myself by the thousands of other 
similar cases which occur to my memory. 
In the present instance I am forced to admit 
that the facts are, to the best of my belief, 

The portly client puffed out his chest 
with an appearance of some little pride, and 
pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper 
from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As 
he glanced down the advertisement column, 
with his head thrust forward, and the paper 
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good 
look at the man, and endeavoured after the 
fashion of my companion to read the indica- 
tions which might be presented by his dress 
or appearance. 

I did not gain very much, however, by my 
inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of 
being an average commonplace British 
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He 
wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check 
trousers, a not overclean black frockcoat, 
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waist- 
coat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and 
a square pierced bit of metal dangling down 
as an ornament. A frayed top hat and a 
faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet 
collar lay upon a chair beside him. Alto- 
gether, look as I would, there was nothing 
remarkable about the man save his blazing 
red head, and the expression of extreme 
chagrin and discontent upon his features. 

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my 
occupation, and he shook his head with a 
smile as he noticed my questioning glances. 
" Beyond the obvious facts that he has at 
some time done manual labour, that he 
takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he 
has been in China, and that he has done a 
considerable amount of writing lately, I can 
deduce nothing else." 

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, 

with his forefinger upon the paper, but his 
eyes upon my companion. 

" How, in the name of good fortune, did 
you know all that, Mr. Holmes? "he asked. 
" How did you know, for example, that I 
did manual labour. It's as true as gospel, 
for I began as a ship's carpenter." 

'' Your hands, my dear sir. Your right 
hand is quite a size larger than your left. 
You have worked with it, and the muscles 
are more developed." 

" Well, the snuff, then, and the Free- 
masonry ? " 

" I won't insult your intelligence by tell- 
ing you how I read that, especially as, 
rather against the strict rules of your order, 
you use an arc and compass breastpin." 

" Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the 
wiiting ?" 

" What else can be indicated by that right 
cuff so very shiney for five inches, and the 
left one with the smooth patch near the 
elbow where you rest it upon the desk." 
" Well, but China ? " 
" The fish which you have tattooed imme- 
diately above your right wrist could only 
have been done in China. I have made a 
small study of tattoo marks, and have even 
contributed to the literature of the subject. 
That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a 
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. 
When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin 
hanging from your watch-chain, the matter 
becomes even more simple." 

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. 
" Well, I never ! " said he. " I thought 
at first that you had done something clever, 
but I see that there was nothing in it after 

" I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, 
" that I make a mistake in explaining. 
' Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, 
and my poor little reputation, such as it is, 
will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. 
Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. 
Wilson ? " 

"Yes, I^iave got it now," he answered, 
with his thick, red finger planted half-way 
down the column. " Here it is. This is 
what began it all. You just read it for 
yourself, sir." 

I took the paper from him, and read as 
follows : — 

" To the Red-Headed League. On 
account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah 
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Penn., U.S.A., there 
is now another vacancy open which entitles 
a member of the League to a salary of four 
pounds a week for purely nominal services. 




All red-headed men who are sound in body 
and mind, and above the age of twenty-one 

Scars, are eligiole. Apply in person on 
tonday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, 
at the offices of the League, 7, Pope V court, 
Fleet -street." 

" What on earth does this 
mean ? " 1 ejaculated, after I had 
twice read over the 
extraordinary an- 

Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his 
chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. 
" It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it ? " 
said he. " And now, Mr. Wilson, off you 
go at scratch, and tell us all about yourself, 
your household, and the effect which this 
advertisement had upon your fortunes, 
You will first make a note, Doctor, of the 
paper and the date." 

" It is The Morning Chronicle, of 
April 27, 1890. Just two months ago." 

" Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson ? " 

" Well, it is just as I have been telling 
you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Jabez 
Wilson, mopping his forehead, M I have a 
small pawnbroker's business at Coburg- 
square, near the City. It's not a very large 
affair, and of late years it has not done 
more than just give me a living. I used 
to be able to keep two assistants, but now I 
only keep one ; and I would have a job to 
pay him, but that he is willing to come 

for half wages, so as to learn the busi- 
ness.- ' 

" What is the name of this obliging 
youth ? '' asked Sherlock Holmes, 

" His name is Vincent Spaulding, and 

he's not such a youth 

Jf^^\ either. It's hard to say 

L^'l his age. I should not 

iJL *» wish a smarter assistant, 

*-f .^P*.. Mr. Holmes ; and I know 

very well that he could 

better himself, and tarn 

twice what I am able to 

give him. But after all, 

if he is satisfied, why 

should I put ideas in his 

head ? " 

"Why, indeed? You 
seem most fortunate in 
having an employe who 
comes under the full 
market price. It is not 
a common experience 
among employers in this 
age. I don't know that 
your assistant is not as 
rtmnrkable as your ad- 

M Oh, he has his faults, 
too," said Mr. Wilson. 
" Never was such a fellow 
for photography. Snap- 
ping away with a camera 
when he ought to be 
improving his mind, and 
then diving down into 
the cellar like a rabbit 
into its hole to develop his pictures. That 
is his main fault ; but, on the whole, he's a 
good worker. There's no vice in him." 
" He is still with you, I presume ? " 
H Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, 
who does a bit of simple cooking, and 
keeps the place clean— that's all I have in 
the house, for I am a widower, and never 
had any family. We live very quietly, sir, 
the three of us ; and we keep a roof over 
our heads, and pay our debts, if we do 
nothing more. 

"The first thing that put us out was that 
advertisement. Spaulding, he came down 
into the office just this day eight weeks 
with this very paper in his hand, and he 
says : — 

" ' I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I 
was a red -headed man.' 
" ' Why that ? ' I asks. 
" ' Why, 1 says he, ' here's another 
vacancy on the League of the Red -headed 



m } 

Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to 
any man who gets it, and I understand that 
there are more vacancies than there are 
men, so that the trustees are at their wits' 
end what to do with the money. If my 
hair would only change colour, here's a nice 
little crib all ready for me to step into.' 

« < Why, what is it, then ? ' I asked. You 
see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home 
man, and, as my business came to me 
instead of my having to go to it, I was 
often weeks on end without putting my 
foot over the door-mat. In that way I 
didn't know much of what was going on 
outside, and I was always glad of' a bit of 

*' ' Have you never heard of the League 
of the Red-headed Men?' he asked, with 
his eyes open. 

" ' Never.' 

" ' Why, I wonder at that 
for you are eligible your- 
self for one of the vacan- 

" ' And what are they 
worth ? ' I asked. 

" 'Oh, merely a couple 
of hundred a year, but 
the work is slight, and it 
need not interfere very 
much with one's other 

" Well, you can easily 
think that that made me 
prick up my ears, for the 
business has not been 
over good for some years, 
and an extra couple of 
hundred would have been 
very handy. 

" ' Tell me all about it,' 
said I. 

11 ' Well,' said he, show- 
ing me the advertisement, 
'you can see for yourself that the League 
has a vacancy, and there is the address 
where you should apply for particulars. 
As far as I can make out, the League 
was founded by an American millionaire, 
Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in 
his ways. He was himself red-headed, and 
he had a great sympathy for all red-headed 
men ; so, when he died, it was found that he 
had left his enormous fortune in the hands 
of trustees, with instructions to apply the 
interest to the providing of easy berths to 
men whose hair is of that colour. From 
all I hear it is splendid pay, and very little 
to do. 1 

" ' But,' said I, ' there would be millions 
of red-headed men who would apply. 1 

M ' Not so many as you might think,' he 
answered. ' You see it is really confined 
to Londoners, and to grown men. This 
American had started from London when 
he was young, and he wanted to do the old 
town a good turn. Then, again, I have 
heard it is no use your applying if your hair 
is light red, or dark red, or anything but 
real, bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you 
cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just 
walk in ; but perhaps it would hardly be 
worth your while to put yourself out of the 

way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'' 
" Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you 
may see for yourselves, that my hair is of 
a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed 
to me that, if there was to be any competi- 
tion in the matter, I stood as good a chance 
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent 
Spaulding seemed to know so much about 
it that I thought he might prove useful, so 
I just ordered him to put up the shutters 
for the day, and to come right away with 
me. He was very willing to have a holiday, 
so we shut the business up, and started off 
for the address thai was given us in the 


io 4 


" I never hope to see such a sight as that 
again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, 
cast, and west every man who had a shade 
of red in his hair had tramped into the City 
to answer the advertisement. Fleet-street 
was choked with red-headed folk, and 
PopcVcourt looked like a coster's orange 
barrow. I should not have thought there 
were so many in the whole country as were 
brought together by that single advertise- 
ment. Every shade of colour they were — 
straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, 
liver,day ; but T as Spaulding said, there were 
not many who had the real vivid flame- 
coloured tint. When 1 saw how many 
were waiting, 1 would have given it up in 
despair ; but Spaulding would not hear of it 
How he did it I could not imagine, but he 
pushed and pulled and butted until he got 
me through the crowd, and right up to the 
steps which led to 
the office. There 
was a double 
stream upon the 
stair, some going 
up in hop?, and 
some coming back 
dejected ; but we 
wedged in as well 
as we could, and 
soon found our- 
selves in the 

" Your experi- 
ence has been a 
most entertaining 
one," remarked 
Holmes, as his 
client paused and 
refreshed his 
memory with a 
huge pinch of 
snuff. "Pray con- 
tinue your very 
, interesting state- 

"There was 
nothing in the office but a couple of 
wooden chairs and a deal table, behind 
which sat a small man, with a head 
that was even redder than mine. He said 
a few words to each candidate as he came 
up, and then he always managed to find 
some fault in them which would disqualify 
them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to 
be such a very easy matter after all. How- 
ever, when our turn came, the little man 
was much more favourable to me than to 
any of the others, and he closed the door as 

Hfc com;katulateu me WARMLV. 

we entered, so that he might have a private 
word with us. 

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my 
assistant, ' and he is willing to fill a vacancy 
in the League.' 

" ' And he is admirably suited for it,' the 
other answered. ' He has every require- 
ment. I cannot recall when I have seen 
anything so fine.' He took a step back- 
wards, cocked his head on one side, and 
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. 
Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung 
my hand, and congratulated me warmly on 
my success. 

" ' It would be injustice to hesitate,' said 
he. ' You will, however, I am sure, excuse 
me for taking an obvious precaution.' 
With that he seized my hair in both his 
hands, and tugged until I yelled with the 
pain. ' There is water in your eyes,' said 
he, as he released 
me. ' I perceive 
that all is as it 
should be. But 
we have to be 
careful, for we 
have twice been 
deceived by wigs 
and once by paint. 
I could tell you 
tales of cobbler's 
wax which would 
disgust you with 
human nature.' 
He stepped over 
to the window, 
and shouted 
through it at the 
top of his voice 
that the vacancy 
was filled. A 
groan of disap- 
pointment came 
up from below, 
and the folk all 
trooped away in 
different direc- 
tions, until there was not a red head to 
be seen except my own and that of the 

'"My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan 
Ross, and 1 am myself one of the pen- 
sioners upon the fund left by our noble 
benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. 
Wilson ? Have you a family ? ' 
" I answered that I had not. 
11 His face fell immediately. 
" ' Dear me ! ' he said, gravely, ' that is 
very serious indeed ! I urn sorry to hear 



you say that. The fund was, of course, for 
the propagation and spread of the red- 
heads as well as for their maintenance. It 
is exceedingly unfortunate that you should 
be a bachelor.' 

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, 
for I thought that I was not to have the 
vacancy after all ; but, after thinking it 
over for a few minutes, he said that it would 
be all right. 

" * In the case of another,' said he, ' the 
objection might be fatal, but we must 
stretch a point in favour of a man with 
such a head of hair as yours. When shall 
you be able to enter upon your new 
duties ? ' 

" ' Well, it is a little awkward, for I have 
a business already,' said I. 

" ' Oh, never mind about that, Mr. 
Wilson ! ' said Vincent Spaulding. ' I 
shall be able to look after that for you.' 

" ' What would be the hours ? ' I asked. 

" ' Ten to two.' 

" Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly 
done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially 
Thursday and Friday evening, which is 
just before pay-day ; so it would suit me 
very well to earn a little in the mornings. 
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a 
good man, and that he would see to 
anything that turned up. 

" ' That would suit me very well,' said I. 
4 And the pay ? ' 

" ' Is four pounds a week.' 

" ' And the work ? ' 

" ' Is purely nominal.' 

" ' What do you call purely nominal ? ' 

" ' Well, you have to be in the office, or 
at least in the building, the whole time. 
If you leave, you forfeit your whole position 
for ever. The will is very clear upon that 
point. You don't comply with the con- 
ditions if you budge from the office during 
that time.' 

" ' It's only four hours a day, and I should 
not think of leaving,' said I. 

" • No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan 
Ross, ' neither sickness, nor business, nor 
anything else. There you must stay, or 
you lose your billet.' 

" ' And the work ? ' 

" ' Is to copy out the " Encyclopedia 
Britannica." There is the first volume of 
it in that press. You must find your own 
ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we pro- 
vide this table and chair. Will you be 
ready to-morrow ? ' 

" ' Certainly,' I answered. 

" ' Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, 

and let me congratulate you once more on 
the important position which you have 
been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed 
me out of the room, and I went homo with 
my assistant, hardly knowing what to say 
or do, I was so pleased at my own good 

" Well, I thought over the matter all day, 
and by evening I was in low spirits again ; 
for I had quite persuaded myself that the 
whole affair must be some great hoax or 
fraud, though what its object might be I 
could not imagine. It seemed altogether 
past belief that anyone could make such a 
will, or that they would pay such a sum for 
doing anything so simple as copying out 
the ' Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent 
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me 
up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself 
out of the whole thing. However, in the 
morning I determined to have a look at it 
anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, 
and with a quill pen, and seven sheets of 
foolscap paper, I started off for Pope's- 

" Well, to my surprise and delight every- 
thing was as right as possible. The table 
was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan 
Ross was there to see that I got fairly to 
work. He started me off upon the letter 
A, and then he left me ; but he would drop in 
from time to time to see that all was right 
with me. At two o'clock he bade mo 
good-day, complimented me upon the 
amount that I had written, and locked the 
door of the office after me. 

"This went on dayafter day, Mr. Holmes, 
and on Saturday the manager came in and 
planked down four golden sovereigns for my 
week's work. It was the same next week, 
and the same the week after. Every morn- 
ing I was there at ten, and every afternoon 
I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan 
Ross took to coming in only once of a 
morning, and then, after a time, he did not 
come in at all. Still, of course, I never 
dared to leave the room for an instant, for 
I was not sure when he might come, and 
the billet was such a good one, and suited me 
so well, that I would not risk the loss of it. 

" Eight weeks passed away like this, and I 
had written about Abbots, and Archery, 
and Armour, and Architecture, and Attica, 
and hoped with diligence that I might get 
on to the Bs before very long. It cost me 
something in foolscap, and I had pretty 
nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And 
then suddenly the whole bu.-iness came to 
an end.'' 




" To an end ? " 

4i Yes, sir. And no later than this morn- 
ing. I went to my work as usual at ten 
o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, 
with a little square 
of cardboard ham- 
mered on to the 
middle of the 
panel with a tack. 
Here it is, and 
you can read for 

He held up a 
piece of white 
cardboard, about 
the size of a sheet 
of notepaper. It 
read in this 
fashion : — 

" The Red- 
headed League 
Oct. 9, 1890." 

Holmes and I 
surveyed this curt 
and the rueful face 
behind it, until 
the comical side 
of the affair so 
completely over- 
topped every 
other considera- 
tion that we both 
burst out into a 
roar of laughter. 

" I cannot see that there is anything very 
funny,'' cried our client, flushing up to the 
roots of his flaming head, " If you can do 
nothing better than laugh at me, I can go 
else when*." 

" No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him 
back into the chair from which he had 
half risen. " I really wouldn't miss your 
case for the world. It is most refreshingly 
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse 
my saying zo, something just a little funny 
about it. Pray what steps did you take 
when you founJ the card upon the door ? " 

il t was staggered, sir. I did not know 
what to do. Then I called at the offices 
round, but none of them seemed to know 
anything about it. Finally, I went to the 
landlord, who is an accountant living on the 
ground floor, and I asked him if he could 
tell me what had become uf the Red-headed 

League. He said that he had never h^ard 
of any such body. Then I asked him who 
Mr, Duncan Ross was. He answered that 
the name was new to him." 

1,1 Well/ said I, 
1 the gentleman at 
No. 4.' 

" ' What, the 
red- headed man?' 
tJ ( Yes, 1 

" 'Oh,' said he, 
' his name was 
William Morris. 
He was a solicitor, 
and was using my 
room as a tem- 
porary con- 
venience until his 
new premises 
were ready. He 
moved out yester- 

" ' Where could 
I find him ? ' 

" Oh, at his 
new offices. He 
did tell me the 
address. Yes, 17, 
King Edward- 
street, near St. 
Paul's.' " 

u I started off, 
Mr. Holmes, but 
when I got to that 
address it was a 
manufactory of 
artificial knee- 
caps, and no one 
in it had ever 
heard of either Mr. William Morris, or Mr. 
Duncan Ross." 

" And what did you do then ? " asked 

M I went home to Saxe-Coburg- square, and 
1 took the advice of my assistant. But he 
could not help me in any way. He could 
only say that if I waited I should hear by 
post. But that was not quite good enough, 
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such 
a place without a struggle, so, as I had 
heard that you were good enough to give 
advice to poor folk who were in need of it, 
I came right away to you." 

" And you did very wisely," said Holmes. 
" Your case is an exceedingly remarkable 
one, and 1 shall be happy to look into it. 
From what you have told me I think that 
it is possible that graver issues hang from it 
than might ai fir-. ;.igln appear." 




11 Grave enough 1 "said Mr. Jabez Wilson. 
« Why, I have lost four pound a week." 

u As far as you are personally concerned,' 1 
remarked Holmes, u I do not see that you 
have any grievance against this extraordi- 
nary league. On the contrary, you are, as 
I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, 
to say nothing of the minute knowledge 
which you have gained on every subject 
which comes under the letter A. You have 
lost nothing by them." 

" No, sir. But I want to find out about 
them, and who they are, and what their 
object was in playing this prank — if it was 
a prank — upon me. It was a pretty ex- 
pensive joke for them, for it cost them two 
and thirty pounds." 

" We shall endeavour to clear up these 
points for you. And, first, one or two ques- 
tions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours 
who first called your attention to the 
advertisement — how long had he been with 
you ? " 

"About a month then." 

" How did he come ? " 

" In answer to an advertisement." 

" Was he the only applicant ? " 

" No, I had a dozen.'' 

" Whj. did you pick him ? " 

*' Because he was handy, and would come 

" At half wages, in fact." 

" Yes." 

u What is he like, this Vincent Spauld- 
ing ? " 

" Small, stout-built, very quick in his 
ways, no hair on his face, though he's not 
short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid 
upon his forehead." 

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable 
excitement. " I thought as much," said he. 
" Have you ever observed that his ears are 
pierced for earrings ? " 

" Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had 
done it for him when he was a lad." 

" Hum ! " said Holmes, sinking back in 
deep thought. " He is still with you ? " 

M Oh yes, sir ; I have only just left 

" And has your business been attended to 
in your absence ? " 

M Nothing to complain of, sir. There's 
never very much to do of a morning." 

" That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be 
happy to give you an opinion upon the 
subject in the course of a day or two. To- 
day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday 
we may come to a conclusion." 

4i Well, Watson," said Holmes, when 

our visitor had left us, " what do you make 
of it all ? " 

" I make nothing of it," I answered, 
frankly. " It is a most mysterious business.' 

" As a rule," said Holmes, " the more 
bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it 
proves to be. It is your commonplace, 
featureless crimes which are really puzzling, 
ju$t as a commonplace face is the most diffi- 
cult to identify, But I must be prompt 
over this matter." 

u What are you going to do then ? " I 

11 To smoke," he answered. M It is quite 
a three pipe problem, and I beg that you 
won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He 
curled himself up in his chair, with his thin 
knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, 
and there he sat with his eyes closed and 
his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill 
of some strange bird. I had come to the 
conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and 
indeed was nodding myself, when he sud- 
denly sprang out of his chair with the 
gesture of a man who has made up his 
mind, and put his pipe down upon the 



s at the St. 
James's Hall 
this afternoon," 
he remarked. 
" What do you 
think, Watson? 
Could your 
patients spare 
you for a few 
hours ? " 

11 1 have no- 
thing to dc 


to-day- My practice is never very ab- 
sorbing.' ' 

"Then, put on your bat, and come. lam 
going through the City first, and we can 
have some lunch on the way. I observe 
that there is a good deal of German music 
on the programme, which is rather more 
to my taste than Italian or French, It is 
introspective, and I want to introspect. 
Come along ! " 

We travelled by the Underground as far 
as Aldersgate ; and a short walk took us to 
Saxe-Coburg-square, the scene of the singu- 
lar story which we had listened to in the 
morning. It was a pokey, little, shabby- 
genteel place, 
where four lines 
of dingy two- 
storied brick 
houses looked 
out into a small 
railed-in enclo- 
sure, where a 
lawn of weedy 
grass, and a few 
clumps of faded 
laurel bushes 
made a hard 
fight against a 
smoke-laden and 
uncongenial at- 
mosphere. Three 
gilt balls and a 
brown board with 
"Jabez Wilson" 
in white letters, 
upon a corner 
house, announced 
the place where 
our red-headed 
client carried on 
his business. 
Sherlock Holmes 
stopped in front 
of it with his 
head on one side, 

and looked it all "the b»qr was i 

over, with his 

eyes shining brightly between puckered 
lids, Then he walked slowly up the 
street, and then down again to the 
corner, still looking keenly at the houses. 
Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, 
and, having thumped vigorously upon the 
pavement with his stick two or three times, 
he went up to the door and knocked. It 
was instantly opened by a bright-looking, 
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him 
to step in. 

u Thank you," said Holme?, " I only 
wished to ask you how you would go from 
here to the Strand." 

** Third right, fourth left," answered the 
assistant promptly, closing the door. 

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes 
as we walked away. " He is, in my judg- 
ment, the fourth smartest man in London, 
and for daring I am not sure that he has 
not a claim to be third. I have known 
something of him before." 

" Evidently," said I, " Mr, Wilson's assis- 
tant counts for a good deal in this mystery 
of the Red-headed League. I am sure that 
you inquired your way merely in order that 
you might see 

" Not him." 
"What then?" 
" The knees of 
his trousers." 

"And what did 
you see ? " 

"What I ex- 
pected to see." 

" Why did you 
beat the pave- 
ment ? " 

" My dear Doc- 
tor^ this is a time 
for observation, 
not for talk. 
We are spies in 
an enemy's coun- 
try. We know 
something of 
square. Let us 
now explore the 
parts which lie 
behind it." 

The road in 
which we found 
ourselves as we 
turned round the 
corner from the 
retired Saxe- 
presented as great a contrast to it as the 
front of a picture does to the back. It 
was one of the main arteries which convey 
the traffic of the City to the north and 
west. The roadway was blocked with the 
immense stream of commerce flowing in a 
double tide inwards and outwards, while 
the footpaths were black with the hurrying 
swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to 
realise as we looked at the line of fine 
shops and stately business premises that 




they really abutted on the other side upon 
the faded and stagnant square which we 
had just quitted. 

" Let nte see," said Holmes, standing at 
the comer, and glancing along the line, " I 
should like just to remembeT the order of 
the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to 
have an exact knowledge of London. 
There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the 
little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch 
of the City and Suburban Bank, the 
Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's 
carriage-building depot. That carries us 
right on to the other block. And now, 
Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time 
we had some play. A sandwich, and a cup 
of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where 
all is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, 
and there are no red-headed clients to vex 
us with their conundrums." 

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, 
being himself not only a very capable per- 
former, but a composer of no ordinary 
merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls 
wrapped in the most perfect happiness, 
gently waving his long thin fingers 
in time to the music, while his 
gently smiling face and his languid 
dreamy eyes were as unlike those of 
Holmes the sleuth-hound ; Holmes 
the relentless, keen-witted, ready 
handed criminal agent, as it 
was possible to conceive. I n 
his singular character the 
dual nature alternately as- 
serted itself, and his extreme 
exactness and astuteness re- 
presented, as I have, 
often thought, the 
reaction against the 
poetic and contem- 
plative mood which ' 
occasionally pre- 

dominated in him. 
The swing of his 
nature took him from 
extreme languor to 
devouring energy ; 
and, as I knew well, 
he was never so truly 
formidable as when, 
for days on end, he 
had been lounging 
in his armchair amid 
his improvisations 
and his black-letter 
editions. Then it 
was that the lust of 
the chase would 

suddenly come upon him, and that his 
brilliant reasoning power would rise to the 
level of intuition, until those who were 
unacquainted with his methods would look 
askance at him as on a man whose know- 
ledge was not that of other mortals. When 
1 saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in 
the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an 
evil time might be coming upon those 
whom he had set himself to hunt down, 

"You want to go home, no-doubt, D<h.- 
tor," he remarked, as we emerged. 
" Yes, it would be as well.'' 
" And I have some business to do which 
will take some hours. This business at 
Coburg-sqiiare is serious." 
" Why serious ? " 

" A considerable crime is in contempla- 
tion. I have every reason to believe that 
we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day 
being Saturday rather complicates matters. 
I shall want your help to-night." 
" At what time ? " 
" Ten will be early enough ." 
" I shall be at Baker-street at ten," 
" Very well. And, I say, Doctor ! there 
may be some little 
danger, so kindly put 
your army revolver 
in your pocket." He 
waved his hand, 
turned on his heel, 
and disappeared in 
an instant among the 

I trust that I am 
not more dense than 
my neighbours, but I 
was always oppressed 
with a sense of my 
own stupidity in my 
dealings with Sher- 
lock Holmes. Here 
I had heard what he 
had heard, I had seen 
what he had seen, 
and yet from his 
words it was evident 
that he saw clearly 
not only what had 
happened, but what 
was about to happen, 
while to me the 
whole business was 
still confused and 
grotesque. As I 
drove home to my 
house in Kensington 
fkk .TA&i-g'™ I thought over it all, 



from the extraordinary story of the red- 
headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia" 
down to the Visit to Saxe-Coburg-square, 
and the ominous words with which he had 
parted from me. What was this nocturnal 
expedition, and why should I go armed? 
Where were we going, and what were we 
to do ? I had the hint from Holmes that 
this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant 
was a formidable man — a man who might 
play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, 
but gave it up in despair, and set the matter 
aside until night should bring an explana- 

It was a quarter past nine when I 
started from home and made my way across 
the Park, and so through Oxford-street to 
Baker-street. Two hansoms were standing 
at the door, and, as I entered the passage, I 
heard the sound of voices from above. On 
entering his room, I found Holmes in 
animated conversation with two men, one 
of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the 
official police agent ; while the other was 
a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very 
shiny hat and oppressively respectable 

" Ha ! our party is complete," said Holmes, 
buttoning up his pea-jacket, and taking 
his heavy hunting crop from the rack. 
" Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of 
Scotland-yard ? Let me introduce you to 
Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our com- 
panion in to-night's adventure." 

" We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, 
you see," said Jones, in his consequential 
way. " Our friend here is a wonderful 
man for starting a chase. All he wants is 
an old dog to help him to do the running 

" I hope a wild goose may not prove to 
be the end of our chase," observed Mr. 
Merryweather, gloomily. 

" You may place considerable confidence 
in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police agent, 
loftily. "He has his own little methods, 
which are, if he won't mind my saying so, 
just a little too theoretical and fantastic, 
but he has the makings of a detective in 
him. It is not too much to say that once 
or twice, as in that business of the Sholto 
murder and the Agra treasure, he has been 
more nearly correct than the official force." 

" Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all 
right ! " said the stranger, with deference. 
"Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It 
is the first Saturday night for seven-and- 
twcnty years that I have not had my 

" I think you will find," said Sherlock 
Holmes, " that you will play for a higher 
stake to-night than you have ever done 
yet, and that the play will be more exciting. 
For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will 
be some thirty thousand pounds ; • and for 
you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom 
you wish to lay your hands." 

" John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher 
and forger. He's a young man, Mr. Merry- 
weather, but he is at the head of his pro- 
fession, and I would rather have my 
bracelets on him than on any criminal in 
London. He's a remarkable man, is young 
John Clay. His grandfather was a Royal 
Duke, and he himself has been to Eton and 
Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his 
fingers, and though we meet signs of him 
at every turn, we never know where to find 
the man himself. He'll crack a crib in 
Scotland one week, and be raising money 
to build an orphanage in Cornwall the 
next. I've been on his track for years, and 
have never set eyes on him yet." 

" I hope that I may have the pleasure of 
introducing you to-night. I've had one or 
two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, 
and I agree with you that he is at the head 
of his profession. It is past ten, however, 
and quite time that we started. If you two 
will take the first hansom, Watson and I 
will follow in the second." 

Sherlock Holmes was not very communi- 
cative during the long drive, and lay back 
in the cab humming the tunes which he 
had heard in the afternoon. We rattled 
through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit 
streets until we emerged into Farringdon- 

" We are close there now," my friend re- 
marked. " This fellow Merryweather is a 
bank director and personally interested in 
the matter. I thought it as well to have 
Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, 
though an absolute imbecile in his profes- 
sion. He has one positive virtue. He is 
as brave as a bulldog, and as tenacious as a 
lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. 
Here we are, and they are waiting for us." 

We had reached the same crowded tho- 
roughfare in which we had found ourselves 
in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, 
and, following the guidance of Mr. Merry- 
weather, we passed down a narrow passage, 
and through a side door, which he opened 
for us. Within there was a small corridor, 
which ended in a very massive iron gate. 
This also w?s opened, and led down a flight 
of winding :>to:ie steps, which terminated at 


another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather 
stopped to light a lantern, and then con- 
ducted us down a dark, earth -smelling pas- 
sage, and so, after opening a third door, 
into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled 
all round with crates and massive boxes. 

" You are not very vulnerable from above," 
Holmes remarked, as he held up the lantern, 
and gazed about him. 

" Nor from below," said Mr. Merry- 
weather, striking his stick upon the flags 
which lined the floor. " Why, dear me, it 
sounds quite hollow ! " he remarked, looking 
up in surprise. 

" I must really ask you to be a little 
more quiet," said Holmes, severely. " You 
have already imperilled the whole success 
of our expedition. 
Might 1 beg that 
you would have the 
goodness to sit 
down upon one of 
those boxes, and not 
to interfere ? " 

The solemn Mr. 

Merryweather perched himself upon a 
crate, with a very injured expression upon 
his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees 
upon the floor, and, with the lantern and 
a magnifying lens, began to examine 
minutely the cracks between the stones. 
A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for 
he sprang to his feet again, and put his 
glass in his pocket. 

" We ha%e at least an hour before us," 
he remarked, "for they can hardly takeany 
steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in 
bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for 
the sooner they do their work the longer 
time they will have for their escape. We 
are at present, Doctor — as no doubt you 
have divined — in the cellar of the City 
branch of one of the principal London 
banks, Mr. Merryweather is the 
chairman of directors, and he wilt 
explain to you that there are reasons 
why the more daring criminals of 
London should take a considerable 
interest in this cellar at present." 

" It is our French gold/' whispered 
the director, " We have had several 
warnings that an attempt might be 
made upon it." 

" Your French gold ? " 
" Yes. We had occasion some 
months ago to strengthen our re- 
sources, and borrowed, for that purpose, 
thirty thousand napoleons from the 
Bank of B' ranee. It has become known 
that we have never had occasion to 
unpack the money, and that it is still 
lying in our cellar. The crate upon 
which I sit contains two thousand 
napoleons packed between layers of 
lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is 
much larger at present than is usually 
kept in a single branch office, and the 
directors have had misgivings upon 
the subject." 

"Which were very well justified," 
observed Holmes. "And now it is 
time that we arranged our little plans. 
I expect that within an hour matters 
will come to ahead. In the meantime, 
Mr. Merryweather, we must put the 
screen over that dark lantern." 
M And sit in the dark ? " 
" I am afraid so, I had brought a 
pack of cards in my pocket, and I 
thought that, as we were a partie 
carree, you might have your rubber 
after all. But I see that the enemy's 
preparations have gone so far that we 
cannot risk the presence of a light. 
Original from 


And, first of all, we must choose our posi- 
tions. These are daring men, and, though 
we shall take them at a disadvantage they 
may do us some harm, unless we are 
careful. I shall stand behind this crate, 
and do you conceal yourselves behind those. 
Then, when I flash a light upon them, close 
in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no 
compunction about shooting them down." 

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the 
top of the wooden case behind which I 
crouched. Holmes shot the slide across 
the front of his lantern, and left us in pitch 
darkness— such an absolute darkness as I 
have never before experienced. The smell 
of hot metal remained to assure us that the 
light was still there, ready to flash out at a 
moment's notice. To me, with my nerves 
worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there 
was something depressing and subduing in 
the sudden gloom, and in the cold, dank 
air of the vault. 

" They have but one retreat," whispered 
Holmes. " That is back through the house 
into Saxe-Coburg-square. I hope that you 
have done what I asked you, Jones ? " 

" I have an inspector and two officers 
waiting at the front door." 

" Then we have stopped all the holes. 
And now we must be silent and wait." 

What a time it seemed ! From com- 
paring notes afterwards it was but an hour 
and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that 
the night must have almost gone, and the 
dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were 
weary and stiff, for I feared to change my 
position, yet my nerves were worked up to 
the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing 
was so acute that I could not only hear the 
gentle breathing of my companions, but I 
could distinguish the deeper, heavier in- 
breath of the bulky Jones from the thin 
sighing note of the bank director. From 
my position I could look over the case in 
the direction of the floor. Suddenly my 
eyes caught the glint of a light. 

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the 
stone pavement. Then it lengthened out 
until it became a yellow line, and then, 
without any warning or sound, a gash 
seemed to open and a hand appeared, a 
white, almost womanly hand, which felt 
about in the centre of the little area of light. 
For a minute or more the hand, with its 
writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. 
Then it was Avithdrawn as suddenly as it 
appeared, and all was dark again save the 
single lurid spark, which marked a chink 
between the stones. 

Its disappearance, however, was but 
momentary. With a rending, tearing 
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned 
over upon its side, and left a square, gaping 
hole, through which streamed the light of 
a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a 
clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly 
about it, and then, with a hand on either 
side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder 
high and waist high, until one knee rested 
upon the edge. In another instant he 
stood at the side of the hole, and was haul- 
ing after him a companion, lithe and small 
like himself, with a pale face and a shock 
of very red hair. 

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have 
you the chisel and the bags. Great Scott ! 
Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it ! " 

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and 
seized the intruder by the collar. The 
other dived down the hole, and I heard the 
sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at 
his skirts. The light flashed upon the 
barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting 
crop came down on the man's wrist, and/ 
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. 

" It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes 
blandly, " You have no chance at all." 

" So I see," the other answered, with the 
utmost coolness. " I fancy that my pal is 
all right, though I see you have got his 

" There are three men waiting for him at 
the door," said Holmes. 

" Oh, indeed. You seem to have done 
the thing very completely. I must compli- 
ment you." 

" And I you," Holmes answered. " Your 
red-headed idea was very new and effective." 

" You'll see your pal again presently," 
said Jones. " He's quicker at climbing down 
holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix 
the derbies." 

" I beg that you will not touch me with 
your filthy hands," remarked our prisoner, 
as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. 
" You may not be aware that I have royal 
blood in my veins. Have the goodness 
also when you address me always to say 
' sir ' and ' please.' " 

" All right," said Jones, with a stare and 
a snigger. "Well, would you please, sir, 
march upstairs, where we can get a cab to 
carry your highness to the police-station." 

"That is better," said John Clay, serenely. 
He made a sweeping bow to the three of us, 
and walked quietly off in the custody of the 

" Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merry- 
Original from 


weather, as we followed them from the 
cellar, " I do not know how the bank can 
thank you or repay you. There is no doubt 
that you have detected and defeated in the 
most complete manner one of the most 
determined attempts at bank robbery that 
have ever come within my experience." 

" I have had one or two little scores of 
my own to settle with Mr. John Clay, 1 ' 
said Holmes, (l I have been at some small 
expense over this matter, which I shall 
expect the bank to refund, but beyond that 
I am amply repaid by having had an ex- 
perience which is in many ways unique, 
and by hearing the very remarkable narra- 
tive of the Red -headed League." 

"You see, Watson," he explained, in the 
early hours of the morning, as we sat over 
a glass of whisky and soda in Baker-street, 
" it was perfectly obvious from the first 
that the only possible object of this rather 
fantastic business of the advertisement of 

the League, and the copying of the ' Encyclo- 
pedia,' must be to get this not over-bright 
pawnbroker out of the way for a number of 
hours every day. It was a curious way of 
managing it, but really it would 
be difficult to suggest a better. 
The method was no doubt 
suggested to Clay's ingenious 
mind by the colour of his 
accomplice's hair. The four 
pounds a week was a lure which 
must draw him, and what was 
it to them, who were playing 
for thousands ? They put in 
the advertisement, one rogue 
has the temporary office, the 
other rogue incites the man to 
apply for it, and together they 
manage to secure his absence 
every morning in the week. 
From the time that I heard of 
the assistant having come for 
half wages, it was obvious 
to me that he had some 
strong motive for securing 
the situation." 

u But how could you 
guess what the motive 
was? " 

" Had there been 
women in the house, I 
should have suspected a 
mere vulgar intrigue. 
That, however, was out 
of the question. The 
man's business was a 
small one, and there was nothing in his 
house which could account for such 
elaborate preparations, and such an ex- 
penditure as they were at. It must then 
be something out of the house. What 
could it be ? I thought of the assistant's 
fondness for photography, and his trick of 
vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! 
There was the end of this tangled clue. 
Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious 
assistant, and found that I had to deal with 
one of the coolest and most daring criminals 
in London. He was doing something in 
the cellar — something which took many 
hours a day for months on end. What 
could it be, once more ? I could think of 
nothing save that he was running a tunnel 
to some other building. 

" So far I had got when we went to visit 
the scene of action. 1 surprised you by 
beating upon the pavement with my stick. 
I was ascertaining whether the cellar 
stretched out in front or behind. It was 

Original from 



not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, 
as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We 
have had some skirmishes, but we had 
never set eyes upon each other before. I 
hardly looked at his face. His knees were 
what I wished to see. You must yourself 
have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and 
stained they were. They spoke of those 
hours of burrowing. The only remaining 
point was what they were burrowing for. 
I walked round the corner, saw that the 
City and Suburban Bank abutted on our 
friend's premises, and felt that I had solved 
my problem. When you drove home 
after the concert I called upon Scotland 
Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank 
directors, with the result that you have 

" And how could you tell that they would 
make their attempt to-night ? " I asked. 

" Well, when they closed their League 
offices that was a sign that they cared no 
longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence, 
in other words, that they had completed 

their tunnel. But it was essential that they 
should use it soon as it might be discovered, 
or the bullion might be removed. Satur- 
day would suit them better than any other 
day, as it would give them two days for 
their escape. For all these reasons I 
expected them to come to-night." 

" You reasoned it out beautifully," I ex- 
claimed in unfeigned admiration. "It is 
so long a chain, and yet every link rings 

" It saved me from ennui," he answered, 
yawning. " Alas ! I already feel it closing 
in upon me. My life is spent in one long 
effort to escape from the commonplaces of 
existence. These little problems help me 
to do so." 

" And you are a benefactor of the race," 
said I. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, 
perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," 
he remarked. " ' L'homme c'est rien — 
l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert 
wrote to Georges Sand." 

Original from 

Up a Shot Tower. 

v.HE writer of this paper, in the 
C pursuit of his profession, has 
probably sunk lower and 
attained to greater heights 
than the majority of his 
confreres. Some months ago 
he required material for an article on anti- 
mony, a metal used for the hardening of 
shot and shell. He went to Cornwall, 
where an antimony mine exists, 
and plunged seventy or eighty 
feet into the bowels of the earth, 
It was a unique experience, an J 
ten minutes in that dark, wet 
hole, in which the miners were 
busy, gave one a very vivid and 
lasting idea of the lives of the 
men who secure fur us the 
treasures of Nature. In u general 
way the conditions of shut manu- 
facture are precisely opposite to 
those of mining. Instead of 
descending a ladder with an 
agility calculated to turn a 
monkey green with envy, one 
has to ascend a tower by means 
of steps which even 
a hardened tread- 
millite might con- 
ceivably agree 
would constitute a 
fair 4i turn." Shot 
— small shot that is, 
not bullets, the 
latter being made in 
moulds — is manu- 
factured at the top 
of a tower, or in 
some place where a 
considerable space 
exists beneath. A 
disused mine shaft 
is just as good as a 

tower, the indis- the shot touek. 

pensable condition 

being a couple of hundred feet of air 
through which the shot may fall. 

Before we describe the manufacture 
of shot it will be interesting to examine a 
28 lb. bag, such as the majority of our 
readers have probably seen at some time or 
other. The bag laid flat is roughly the size 
of this page ; and 28 lbs. far from fill it. 
If you take the trouble to count the shot, 

£=^^_— ;. silvery r 

contains, you will find that there are from 
50,000 to 70,000, the number depending 
upon the size of the shot. Assuming one 
knows nothing about the matter, it would 
naturally seem that the manufacture of so 
many separate little balls must occupy a 
terrible time. To mould them would be 
an interminable process. As a matter of 
fact shot is produced at a rate varying from, 
say, 24 millions to 30 
millions an hour — from 
400,000 to 500,000 a minute. 
These figures sound in- 
credible, and we should 
certainly doubt thtm if we 
had not made the calcula- 
tion ourselves. 

Near the south 
end of Waterloo 
Bridge, and within 
a few yards of the 
Thames, stands a 
monster structure 
known as the Shot 
Tower, It is a 
familiar sight, but 
not even your Lon- 
don cabby, in nine 
cases out of ten, 
knows that it is a 
shot tower. With 
the permission of 
the proprietors we 
will pay it a visit, 
and see how the 
shot is produced. 
Arrived at the base, 
the first thing wc 
notice is a sharp, 
incessant shower of 
into a huge tub of 
water. It makes a noise very like that of 
an overflowing waste- pipe high up in one's 
wall. Its source we cannot quite see. A 
hundred feet above us is a floor or first 
stage, through an opening in which the 
shower is passing. Evidently it begins 
from a much greater height than this even. 
The prospect of the climb is not par- 
ticularly enticing. There are 327 steps, it 
is a hot day, and the place is necessarily 
not scrupulously clean. However, duty 
calls, and provided with a canvas bag to 
save one's hand and cuff in clutching at 


or get at an estimate of the number the bag the railing or iron banister, we make a 
p nno | Original fro 

il from 


start with all the confidence begot of the 
recollection of schoolday feats. Up, up, 
up — phew ! — it is warm work, and breath- 
ing is not so easy after a hundred and fifty 
steps have been rapidly passed over, as it 
was at the beginning. All the time we 
have been running round the building, 
immediately inside the shell, as it were, 
and on our left, as we make revolution 
after revolution, the shower of lead 
continues, the sun through the various 

windows now and again glinting on it and 
making it look more like summer rain than 
ever. On the first stage no one is at work, 
and there is nothing to see except a crucible 
or boiler, pretty much the shape of that we 
have seen in the family laundry. So away 
we go again manfully, with " Excelsior,'* 
and the " Pilgrim's Progress," alternately 
flitting through our minds, until at last the 
lop stage is reached. Though we are some 
200 feet above the earth, we are not exactly 
on the summit of the toner yet, but only 
in a sort of top story, and some feet above 
us is the roof on which a flagstaff is erected, 
apparently in a vain attempt to get at the 

The secret of shot-making is ours at last. 
In the centre of this top stage is a trap door 
wide open, yawning in a sinister way which 
warns the new comer to beware. Through 
the trap door runs a huge chain attached 
to an elongated box by means of which the 
pig lead leaning against the walls has been 
hoisted. A man is standing at a boiler, 
similar to that seen on the stage below, 
containing the molten lead. The heat is 
very great, and as he ladles the liquid metal 
into a perforated pan or sort of colander in 
front of him, the perspiration stands out on 
his brow in big drops, suggestive of the 
shot itself. To make shot, however, some- 
thing more is essential than a great height, 
a colander, and molten lead. The metal 
before it arrives in pig form — that is, in 
large bars — has been prepared with antimony 
or arsenic. When it has been thoroughly 
heated, a sort of scum forms on it, which 
if it were from milk would be called cream, 
but being from lead is called dross. This 
U carefully preserved. Some of it is placed 
in the perforated pan before the molten 
lead is poured into it. The lead makes its 
way through the dross, and then escapes 
through the holes in the pan, into space. 
The degree of heat, the amount of dross, 
the distance, the quantity of lead are all 
things which have to be thought of, and 
which can only be properly regulated 
by an experienced hand. It looks simple 
enough to pour the hot lead into the pan, 
but it is very much simpler to spoil the 
shot by indifferent knowledge of what is 

Whilst our artist is getting a picture of 
the man at work, we may take the oppor- 
tunity of telling our readers what we have 
been able to discover of the origin of this 
method of shot-making. The story goes 
that it was all an accident, just as Isaac 


OF .' 





Newton's discovery of the law of gravita- 
tion was due to the simple circumstance of 
seeing an apple fall to the ground, or the 
discovery of the steam locomotive was due 
to the throbbing 
of the kettle on 
hob. Somewhere 
in the last cen- 
tury a Bristol 
mechanic named 
Watts, who was 
employed in cut- 
ting up strips of 
lead into small 
pieces for the 
purpose of shot, 
is said to have 
imbibed a little 
too freely. He 
went to bed in a 
muddled state, 
and as is, we 
should imagine, 
not improbable, 
dreamt various 
dreams. Having 
taken too much 
strong drink and 
too little water, 
he would 

naturally con- 
jure up visions of 

the only ale with which Adam was ac- 
quainted. He saw it rain heavily, and as 
he watched, to his surprise the rain became 
lead, and the earth was covered with shot. 
Awaking to his sound senses, Watts is 
pictured dwelling on his dream until he 
came to believe there was something in it. 
He determined to make an experiment, and 
proceeded forthwith to the tower of St. 
Mary Redcliff in Bristol. He is said to 
have proved the correctness of the idea of 
the dream. Shot could best be made by 
dropping the lead from a great height. 
Shrewd man as he was — up to a point — 
Watts by this discovery made, according 
to the chronicler, ^~io,ooo. Having made 
a fortune, however, he did not know how 
to keep it. He determined to build Clifton 
Crescent, but the excavations, &c, necessary 
to so grand an enterprise exhausted his 
money before a single house was com- 
menced. Hence Clifton Crescent, we are 
told, became known as Watts's Folly. 

This is one explanation of the inception 
of the idea of shot-making as now witnessed. 

ivmhing T0rif*na| from 



Like many other pretty stories, however, it 
might not bear too close a scrutiny. We 
believe the notion of making shot by letting 
lead fall from a height is older than the 
date when Watts flourished. In the Watts 
story, too, we can find no reference to the 
essential tub of water at the base to cool 
the pellets. If they fell on to the hard 
ground before they were cold, they would 
be bruised and spoilt. At the same time a 
mueh more likely story is even more diffi- 
cult to verify. It is to be found in some 
curious old book somewhere, no doubt, but 
so far we have to confess to an inability to 
trace it. We have the story, however, on 
the authority of one who has long been 
interested in shot -making, though he can- 
not indicate the source of his information. 
In the old time wars, when one of the 
historic castles, which many of our readers 
will explore during their annual outing, 
was the scene of a last desperate struggle, the 
besieged trusted tor security to the diffi- 
culty which the enemy would "fi'-.-J in getting 
across the moat running round the walls. 
Well, let us for a moment give our imagi- 
nation free plav. as though we would dispute 
with Sir Walter Scott the right to the 
premiership in the field of 
romance. There stands the brave 

found at the bottom, and the idea of shot- 
making is secured. This account, at any 
rate, gives us the indispensable water into 
which the metal must fall if it is not to be 

However all this may be, here is the man 
hard at work manufacturing shot in a way 
which a recent generation certainly did not 
invent. Having got all we want con- 
cerning him, we will go out on to the para- 
pet which runs round the outside of the 
tower, on a level with this top floor. As 
we open the door a breath of deliciously 
fresh wind sweeps in. The height is 
a giddy one, so giddy, in fact, that some 
people have positively refused to go out- 
side and walk round the tower. It requires 

old castle — not quite so 
old in those days as in 
these ; in the fields around 
are a determined host 
preparing to storm it ; 
inside its walls are the equally determined 
defenders, who know by the disposition of 
the enemy that the crisis is at hand. A 
little later and the besiegers are actually 
scaling the walls. They are met and 
driven back with horrible torture by men 
armed with boiling lead, which falls, in 
probably hundreds of separate pieces, into 
the water hissing and spitting below. Then, 
in the time to come, when the moat is 
cleared out, a number of more or less 
perfect pellets, in a spherical form, are 

than one is 
perhaps pre- 
pared to ad- 
mit, especially 
when. unac- 
customed to 
be thu-- elevated above 
our fellows as we are, we 
feel the tuwer give a 
distinct lurch, and con- 
jure up visions of being 
flung like a lacrosse ball, 
far away across the river 
to the embankment on the other side. 

On a clear day the sight from the Shot 
Tower is one of the best in London, But it 
seldom is really clear in this mighty Babylon 
of ours, and, though we have made several 
pilgrimages to its summit, we have never 
seen more than a mile or so through the 
smoke-haze that hangs over the capital. 
Still one gets a panorama of a not incon- 
siderable portion of London life. Looking 
awav north one of the first things noted 
in the distainieiirialtiiomTi'/-^/^ sky-sign. 



Nowhere else 
can so fine a 
view be had 
of the magni- 
ficent Thames 

running from the Houses 

of Parliament on the 

west, to Blackfriars 

Bridge on the east. The 

Thames itself, not here 

the silvery, but very much the muddy 

Thames, rushes hurriedly bv, bearing on its 

bosom pleasure steamers 

and row boats and big 

barges ; some of the latter, 

by the way, laden with 

the pig lead which is to 

find its way up the Shot 


Our visit is nearly com- 
plete. Descending the ;?oo 
odd steps, an easier and 

quicker process than the 
ascent, we de- 
vote ourselves 

for a while to 

watching the 

process of finish- 
ing off the shot. 

After removal 

from the tub, it 

has to be dried 

by being laid 

on a hot slab. 

Thence it is 

transferred to a 

box, from which it passes to a 
revolving cylinder with holes of 
various sizes, Thu smallest holes 
are near the box, and the smallest 
shot passes through them. The 
larger shot passes on to another 
part, until it finds holes big enough 
to allow it to escape. Once out 
of this cylinder-sifter, the shot falls 
into a receptacle, with an aperture 
at the bottom. As it leaves this, 
it drops on to a piece of wood, 
roughly about a foot square, down 
which it rolls into one of two boxes. 
If you examine this 
piece of wood, you will 
find that it is 'slightly 
inclined, the incline 
giving the shot a 
momentum just suffi- 
cient to carry the 
imperfect into one 
box, and the perfect 
into a second. It is 
the most ingenious 
device imaginable. 
Having been thus as- 
sorted, the shot is 
put into a revolving 
box containing black- 
lead. The revolutions 
not only serve to thoroughly blacklead the 
shot, but to wear off any little excrescence, 
and make them 
more perfectly 
round. They 
have then to be 
weighed in the 
28 lb, bags re- 
ferred to above. 
From the weigh- 
ing machine 
they are passed 
to a table at 
which a woman 
;. sits with needle 
I and thread. 
Their mouths 
\ are sewn up, 
they are ready 
fnr the market, 
and we have 
•seen practically 
all there is to 
be seen of the 
manufacture of 
sma(l shot. 

Original from 


t]HEKE was, once upon a time, 
in ;in island of the East, an 
inmmparable Princess, gifted 
with all the perfections of 
heart and mind. Her graces 
were celebrated a hundred 
leagues round ; her kingdom was flourish- 
ing, her subjects respectful, her ministers 
capable. She lived in the time of the 
fairies. More than a thousand suitors, all 
kings or sons of kings, aspired to her hand ; 
but the A ilia showed no favour to any of 
them, the only preference she had ever ex- 
hibited having been concentrated on white 
Velvetpaw, her favourite cat. 

Velvetpaw was a charming little playful 
animal, with large irised eyes, tufts at the 
ends of its shapely ears, and a coat so soft, 
silky, and abundant that the Princess's 
hands disappeared when she caressed it. 

In imitation of the sovereign, all the great 
people in the kingdom possessed at least 
one favourite cat, which they petted and 
nursed incessantly. They were seen with 
jewels in their ears, bracelets on their paws, 
or with collars inconceivably magnificent ; 
they slept on down and satin, ate out of 
golden or silver dishes, and had servants to 

Those of the middle class had 
to content themselves with 
silver jewellery and with eating 
out of porcelain dishes ; but, 
more philosophic than men, 
they ate with no less appetite. 
This island was, at that time, 
truly the paradise of cats : their 
lives, protected by special laws, 
had nothing to fear, either from 
traps or from the river, which, 
amongst us, makes so many 
victims. They increased and multiplied at 
leisure, and their wishes were carefully 
respected. So it was that no country had 
ever cats so beautiful or so numerous. 

When the shades of evening closed in, 
the inhabitants went forth into their streets 
without lanterns, their path illuminated by 
thousands of naming eyes, beaming from 
the house-tops to the cellar-gratings, spark- 
ling from the shadows of every bush, from 
the tree-branches above their heads, from 
the hollows between the stones at their feet, 
flying, climbing, crossing through space, 
like a flight of disordered stars. 

Then it was a strange concert, a discor- 
dant symphony, in which the mewing of all 
ages and conditions mingled without con- 
founding each other ; at first, a mere con- 
fused rumour, which speedily grew into a 
tumult, filling the shades of night with 
alarms, augmenting, hissing, growling, to 
burst into a deafening fracas, in which the 
affrighted ear might imagine it was listen- 
ing, in the midst of inhuman roaring, to 
the agonising cries of a child being put to 

But, with the coming of day, flames and 
battling dispersed, order returned, and the 
mutineers of the night once again became 


OF .' 



peaceful citizens, resumed the insignia of 
their dignities, their mild and inoffensive 
demeanour, and all the airs of honest people 
incapable of committing the smallest 

Ailla was living happily in this way, and 
all her people with her, when, one fine 
night, she took it upon herself to dream of 
a blue cat with topaz-coloured eyes, having 
upon its neck a collar of diamonds, the 
most sparkling in the world. Could a poor 
princess, who has nothing to desire, dream 
of anything else ? So there would have 
been no great harm done, but for the inter- 
vention of an enchanter one hundred and 
twelve years old, who, twice 
before, had explained to the Prin- 
cess dreams which had troubled 
her sleep. 

This magician lived not far 
from the royal palace, in an old 
ruined tower 
haunted by 
spirits, a place 
thoroughly fitted, 
if there ever was 
one, for carrying 
on of mysterious 

Ailla went 
there, the yery 
morning after she 
had had that 
dream, attended 
by one slave 
only; for neither 
for evil spirits nor 
women would the 
magician put 
himself in the 
least out of the 
way, At the first 
sound of ap- 
proaching foot- 
steps, the owls, 
the daws, and the 
ravens, who in- 
habited the 
sinister old tower, 
took wing with 
a frightful clat- 
ter, and from under the shuddering grass 
vipers and serpents glided, hissing now 
softly, now angrily. 

At the entrance to a large room, draped 
with enormous spiders' webs, a great toad 
croaked three times. Though the sun had 
been for some tim« risen, a dim light, like 
that of the moon, alone entered this awe- 

inspiring dwelling, which was almost filled 
with darkness. 

In the obscurest corner of the room sat 
the magician, or, rather, he lay half buried 
in an immense wheeled arm-chair, in which 
he ceaselessly, and with prodigious activity, 
moved about. He was, besides, so well 
wrappedupin a red and black robe garnished 
with bells, and his hat, three feet high, and 
tipped with the eye of a lynx, was pressed 
down so tightly on his head, that it was 
with difficulty that his face, angular and 
polished as ivory, 
could be distin- 
guished. Not 
content with 
being legless, he 
was nne-eyed, his 
unique eye, deep- 
set, glittering 
like a firefly in 
a glass case. His 
beard, white and 
abundant, de- 
scended to the 
ground, forming 
on his black robe 
a snowy cascade. 
On every side 
lay, heaped in 
strange disorder, 
objects of odd 
form: living ani- 
mals motionless, 
others, that were 
stuffed, writhing ; 
on overthrown 
trunks were seen 
open books, writ- 
ten in undeci- 
pherable charac- 
ters ; in another 
lace, a vessel filled with bloodstained 
water, in which floated, like streaming 
weeds in a dark pool, great locks of human 
hair decked with tinsel spangles ; and when 
a gust of wind passed through the wide 
openings from without, the rattling of 
skeletons hanging from the roof was heard. 
On perceiving Ailla, the magician made 
her a sort of bow ; but scarcely had she 
told him, in trembling tones, what had 
brought her to his abode, than he uttered a 
frightful imprecation. After which, having 
made with his chair three rapid circles 
about the Princess, he stopped short, and, 
in a piercing voice, announced to her that, 
if she wished to avoid terrible misfor- 
tunes, she must instantlv have search made 
Original fro ni 


for the Blue Cat, the presence of which 
could alone save her from impending 

At these words the screech-owl perched 
on the master's shoulder, flapped its wings 
and uttered a dismal cry ; a monstrous 
spider crouching on his knees set up the 
bristles on its back ; all the bells on the 
magician's robe jangled at once ; the lynx 
eye shot forth a greenish beam ; then all 
became obscured. The Princess fainted, 
and, without paying any other heed to her 
the old enchanter had her carried out of 
the tower by one of his familiar animals. 

To tell the truth, the wicked old 
enchanter had wished to make a strong im- 
pression on the Princess's mind, though it 
is possible that he meditated some other 
dark project. Everybody knows how deep 
is the rascality of enchanters. However, it 
may have been, his cunning did not much 
profit him ; for that same evening while he 
was preparing a brand-new enchantment 
his big cauldron burst, and next morning 
nothing was found in his dwelling but a 
heap of cinders, in the midst of which were 
some still smoking bones. 

Ailla saw in this death a confirmation of 
the prophecy, and fainted for the second 

Now the whole kingdom was turned 
upside down. By order of the Grand 
\ izier search was everywhere made, from 
the floor of the palace to the roof of the 
highest garret. Notices were published, 
rewards were offered to whoever should 
discover, seize, and bring to the Princess 
the marvellous cat. 

It was spring-time, and there was no lack 
of kittens ; the entire army was occupied 
in examining all the new-born, amongst 
which were found every known hue of coat ; 
but not one that was blue. Then the open 
country was minutely explored, the forest, 
the rocks — vainly. 

The Princess visibly declined day by day, 
trembling unceasingly, and turning from all 

At length, weary of waiting, Ailla con- 
voked an extraordinary sitting of the Grand 
Council, and solemnly declared that she 
would give her hand to whoever should 
bring her the marvellous cat. 

Great was the stir amongst her suitors ; 
never before did so many travellers stream 
over the surface of the globe! Panting 
horses crossed and recrossed each other 
everywhere ; the roads in every direction 
were encumbered with overthrown car- 

riages. Ships were seen to sink under the 
weight of passengers on board of them ; 
while the sky was dotted with balloons 
ballasted with travellers. The easy explana- 
tion of all this voyaging energy is that 
every one of the Princess's official suitors 
had published, far and near, promises of 
rich rewards to whoever should succeed in 
finding the Blue Cat. The result was that 
one half the world rushed upon the other 

A year sped ; the Princess had become 
the merest shadow of her former self. Her 
temper was sharpened ; she saw about her 
nothing but crime and treason. Horrible 
phantoms disturbed her sleep ; and, on 
awaking, she confounded the dreams of her 
brain with the actuality of things. In- 
stinctively she condemned all those of 
whom she had conceived any doub\ The 
executioner, hitherto unemployed, de- 
manded an increase of salary ; he even 
spoke of taking an assistant ! 

In utter despair, all the most learned 
men in the world were consulted. They 
came from all countries, and, greeting each 
other with a thousand civilities, did not fail 
to exchange a vast number of compliments 
on their own works, of which they spoke 
with reverence, while, not having read 
a line of them, each, on his side, firmly 
believed that his own works alone were 
worthy of sincere praise and deep study. 
These salaamings got through, one banquet 
and then another was organised for their 
edification — for there is no talking well save 
at table— and a thousand subjects were dis- 
cussed, all wide of the matter which had 
brought them together. 

On that subject, they speedily divided 
themselves into two camps ; one affirmed 
that the Blue Cat was but a variety of the 
tiger ; the other party, on the contrary, 
maintained that the tiger is nothing but a 
completely developed cat. From tigers the 
discussion passed by insensible degrees, to 
leopards, to the lion — even to monkeys. 
In short, at the end of six months, the 
Prime Minister, wishing to know the result 
of their labours, found them almost smoth- 
ered under a mass of reports ; their heads 
alone were yet visible, and all at the 
moment were profoundly occupied in 
active researches on the subject of a certain 
kind of coleoptcra missing since the time of 
.'.he Deluge, and which one of them flattered 
himself he had refound. So hotly were 
they disputing over this matter, indeed, as 
hardly to be conscious of the purpose 



which had brought them together. Furious 
at their conduct, the Princess ordered them 
all to be hanged, which had the effect of 
making them all of one opinion, this time 
at least. 

Next day an edict was posted on the 
walls of all the cities in the kingdom, 
announcing that each day, in alphabetical 
order, ten citizens, men and women, should 
be hung, and that the extermination should 
be continued until the Blue Cat was found 
and brought to the Princess. 

The consternation was extreme. In all 
directions the streams became swollen with 
the tears that were shed to such a 
degree as to threaten an inundation 
in several parts of the kingdom, and 
the wind was drowned in the sounds •' • &P 
of the cries forced from the despair \ \ 
which such a tyranny excited. The 
boldest spoke in low' tones of revolt ,, 

which, in the times of the fairies, was 
a thing unheard of. 

It was then that a young man, well made 
and of distinguished bearing, took a violent 
His name was 
Brisloun, and 
he desired to 
save his coun- 
try, his fellow 
citizens, and 
■ himself. Pos- 
g sibly he had 
Ta wish even 
beyond all 
\§f this. With 
this purpose 
he went to the 
house of the Prime Minis- 
ter, who, before being hung 
next day (his name begin- 
ning with an A), was in a 
very bad temper, and Very 
little disposed to receive 
visitors. However, a mes- 
sage given by the young 
man having been conveyed 
to him, reawakened in the diploma- 
tist's downcast soul a gleam of hope. 
&L ^ He ordered the stranger to be shown 
in to him. 

In two words the young man 
explained his idea and plan. The 
idea was a very simple one, which 
readily accounted for the fact that 
nobody had before thought of it. The 
plan was a bold one. It was nothing 
less than to play the oracle, mystify a 
queen, and gull a people— who could 
tell ? perhaps to falsify for ever the 
history of science in regard to the 
colour of cats ! The mere thought 
of it made the Ministers forehead 
burst into a cold perspiration. 

''If the trick is discovered," he 
objected, " we shall be impaled like 
traitors, beheaded like forgers, and 
burned at a slow fire like men guilty 
of sacrilege."' 

But Brisloiin was not in the least 
degree weak-minded ? 

" One can but die once," he 
replied. In the situation of the 
Minister he ran but little risk. 

These arguments were, in the end, 
successful, and the young man's plan 
accepted. Velvet paw was confided to 

The. flight passed feverishly and 


2I 4 


slowly for the unfortunate Minister. At 
length dawn appeared, shedding its rosy 
tints upon the long row of gibbets which 
had been set up. 

Exhausted by a terrible nightmare, the 
Princess hardly closed her eyes. One of 
her thin hands hung down from the side of 
her couch ; her bosom heaved. 

At that moment one of the doors of her 
chamber was partially opened, and, a 
moment afterwards, closed again noiselessly. 
At the same instant a strange sensation 
awakened the Princess. An enormous 
weight was stifling her. Feebly she raised 

her heavy eyelids, pressed on by the finger 
of death. Oh, miracle ! Curled up upon 
her breast — soft, supple, graceful, and of an 
azure the most beautiful imaginable — a cat 
was admiring her, smiling at her, in its 
way, with its great limpid golden eyes. 
Diamonds, big as stars, sparkled amid its 
silky coat. A ilia had only power to utter 
a loud scream, to break the cord of her 
bell, and to faint away once more, 

Some hours later, happy, appeased, and 
already less pale, the Princess went in great 
pomp to the Council Chamber. Before 
her, on a cushion of cloth of gold, theazure- 
coloured cat allowed itself to be devoutly 
borne. Then the Prime Minister, pro- 
strating himself, and with all the usual 
ceremonial, presented Brisloun to the Prin- 
cess, and related to her how, after having 
discovered the Blue Cat at the bottom of 
an inaccessible cavern, guarded by frightful 
monsters, this young man had, at the peril 
of his life, and after overcoming a thousand 
difficulties, brought it away. 

During the delivery of this address the 
Princess had very attentively regarded her 
deliverer. She even suddenly remembered 
that she had promised her hand to whoever 
should succeed in accomplishing the difficult 
task in which so many others had failed. 
As she appeared inclined to keep her word, 
the Minister again prostrated himself, and, 
not without embarrassment, observed to 
his sovereign that Brisloiin — otherwise 
gifted with all the qualities that make an 
amiable husband— was unfortunately only 
a draper. But, without pausing to hear 
more, Ailla replied quickly : — 

''His address 
and courage shall 
stand him in 
stead of letters 
of nobility, and to 
begin with I will 
name him Grand 
Commander of 
the Blue Cat, of 
which order the 
lowest chevalier 
shall be princes 
of the blood ! 
The wedding 
shall take place 
a week hence ! " 

M any d a y s 
sped happily, and 
probably no cloud would have shown itself 
upon the horizon, but for the fancy which 
overtook the precious Blue Cat to escape 
from the royal apartments, where it" was 
kept with great ceremony, to scamper fnr 
awhile on the roof of the palace. The 
moon, it was true, was shining that night 
with peculiar brightness, and it may be 
imagined that being a cat does not 
necessarily imply inability to admire the 
beauties of nature. 

In short, imprudent pussy, intoxicated 
by the air and liberty, pranced about so 
Original from 



wildly as suddenly to lose her balance, to 
slip down a gutter which descended per- 
pendicularly into an inner court of the 
palace, and, finally, to pitch head first into 
a big basin in which aromatics and essences 
were in course of soaking. Stunned by the 
fall and half stifled by the violence of the 
perfu flies, the poor creature struggled 
home time before being able to extricate 

The agitation of the Princess may be con- 
ceived when, ftext day, she beheld this cat 
on which the security of the kingdom 
rested enter her chamber shivering, soiled, 
dazed, with the aspect, in short, of a half- 
drowned animal. This agitation, however, 
was as nothing compared with that which 
followed on her discovering that large 
patches of white marred the robe of 
azure obtained at the cost of so many 

Presently, alas ! even doubt was no longer 
possible ; for, by force of rubbing against 
the bed-curtains to dry itself, Velvetpaw, 
Oh, perfidious — Velvetpaw herself reap- 
peared, still slightly blue, but nevertheless 
only too recognisable ! It had been able to 
save its skin in the accident of the past night, 
but 'not its colour, which was not proof 
against essences. 

The anger of the Princess was extreme 
on learning in this way the trick by which 
she had been abused. Instantly she wished 
to avenge herself, but in a terrible, cruel 
manner; and she was hesitating on the 
choice of a punishment, when the Prince 
entered, handsomely dressed in a cherry- 
coloured satin robe embroidered with 
pearls, which admirably set off his gallant 

As soon as she saw him she pointed an 
accusing finger towards discoloured Velvet- 
paw, which, with a very crestfallen air, was 
curled up at the foot of the Princess's 

" Torture shall make you repent, miser- 
able impostor ! " she cried, trembling with 
passion, and with flashing eyes. 

Brisloun was not in the least alarmed. 

" What has made you so angry, 
madam, and what crime has drawn down 
upon me such severe reproaches ? " he 

" Tricking me ! " replied the Princess 

Brisloun was still unmoved. 

" You ought, on the contrary, to thank 
me," he said. " The cat of which you 
dreamed hs»s no existence ; I made it ; your 

life, your beauty, your happiness — I say 
nothing of that of your whole people — de- 
pended on this caprice ; I staked my head 
on satisfying it." And in a gentle tone he 
added : " Say, Princess, have you been less 
happy ? " 

"To have played the oracle ! '' said Ailla, 
her bosom heaving. 

"To have interpreted it, you would 
say." And, as she suddenly became 
thoughtful, Brisloun went on : " Your 
dream, my beautiful Princess, was at once 
a warning and a lesson. The sorcerer 
gave you the word, I the sense of it. 
Happiness, Ailla, is not like the grenades, 
less red than your lips, which are brought 
to you on a salver of gold, fresh gathered, 
perfumed, and perfectly ripe ; the divers 
elements which compose it are floating 
freely about in the world ; it is for us to 
seize upon them and bring them to- 

Was it the effect of this address, or a new 
caprice ? Did the large black eyes of 
Brisloun influence her who had many times 
before submitted to their powerful fascina- 
tion ? No one has ever known ; but the 
anger of Ailla suddenly disappeared, like 
the melting of thin snow under the rays of 
spring. With a slightly pouting smile, she 
held out to the Prince a hand which he 
needed no beseeching to carry to his 

Velvetpaw, thinking that a good moment 
for re-entering into the Princess's favour, 
went and gently rubbed her' tiny head 
against her skirts ; and, thinking of some- 
thing else, the Princess sat down and 
caressed her. 

Ailla was superstitious, and, moreover, 
she was a woman. She reflected for a few 
minutes, then turning with irresistible grace 
to Brisloun, who was watching her, she 
said : 

" Prince, you have discovered the true 
meaning of the oracle, and I thank you for 
doing it. And now I am going to ask a 
favour of you." 

He hastened to protest that he was ready 
to give his dear Princess all the proofs of 
love and devotion it should please her to 

Without speaking she took up Velvetpaw 
and handed it to him. 

" What ! " cried Brisloun, laughing, "you 
want a new one ? " 

"I should feel more at ease ; only — ," she 
paused, laughing also ; but presently added 
in a coquettish tone, " since it makes no 




difference to you, dye it rose-colour this 

The moral of the story is this : — 

A white cat is as good as a blue cat. 
What is most important is, to have a box 
of colours and to know how to vise it on 
due occasion. 

u) " 

Original from 

Original from 


Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 


jjJjN one of the prettiest corners 
of Kensington is a quiet spot 
known as The Boltons. No 
happier or more suggestive 
name could have been found 
for it than that bestowed by 
the famous singers little boy. He calls it 
"Our Village," and you have only to look 
out from the windows of any of the sur- 
rounding houses, and there, in the midst of 
a wealth of green and trees, is the church ; 
whilst there is nothing to disturb the still- 
ness save the singing of the birds, which 
are piping here, there, and everywhere. In 
a huge corner house, with great balconies 
which seem to suggest a trystiug-place for 
Romeo and Juliet, resides Mrs. Ernest 
Gye, familiarly known the wide world over 
as Madame Albani. It is an attractive spot 
to the passer-by, and a delighted open-air 
audience may often be found there in the 
morning, when the sounds of the artiste's 
voice are to be heard, practising the opera 
for the night, 
in the drawing- 

I could not 
have called at a 
more opportune 
time. It was 
the afternoon 
following her 
last appearance 
at Covent Gar- 
den this season, 
and the place 
was a veritable 
garden of flowers 
— floral rewards 
bestowed upon 
the singer the 
previous night 
for her dramatic 
rendering of 
Desdemona in 
"Otello." Wher- 
ever the eye 
looked there 
were flowers — 
roses were 
springing out of 
every nook and 
corner, huge />™ « pw,.. *„i 

posies and heavy baskets, whilst leaning 
negligently against the wall of the drawtng- 
room was a great A composed of white 
sweet-peas, and the tiny vases scattered 
about were brimming over with the blos- 
soms, They had to be conveyed home in 
a cab last night, for the carriage was already 
full of them. 

Madame Albani 's talents have won for 
her a precious collection of souvenirs, and 
the house is a store for them, After pass- 
ing through the entrance hall, where a 
moment before her clever dog " Chat " has 
kindly obliged by sitting for his picture, we 
come, on the immediate tight, to Mr. Gye's 
study. On his table are set out homely 
photos of himself, his wife, and their only 
child, Ernest ; and over the fireplace is a 
magnificent stag's head, a reminiscence of 
Scotland. In a niche in the hall by the 
window is a life-size statue of their son, by 
Prince Victor of Hohenlohe. The little 
fellow is in sailor's costume, and playing 
with a toy rail- 
- way engine, his 
one great amuse- 
m e n t when 
three or four 
years of age, 
when he could 
boast of a 
collection of 
engines and 
tenders which 
would make any 
child in the land 
pardonably en- 
vious. It is in 
the drawing- 
room where one 
realises to what 
extent Madame 
Albani's talents 
have been ac- 
knowledged, so 
far as the be- 
stowal of kindly 
gifts conveys ap- 
preciation. The 
apartment is 
richly draped, 
and its walls are 
iani. ,[*.«*. an agreeable 

Original from 


palace and the window where the old 
Emperor was wont to stand and salute the 
guard. In a glass case, by the window, is a 
silver wreath — a reminiscence of the terrible 
inundations in Belgium, presented by the 
Mayor of Brussels when the artist sang in 
aid of a fund for the sufferers. 

But what strikes one most of all arc the 
almost countless photos of nearly every 
member of the Royal family. Madame 
Albani may justly claim to be the favourite 
singer of the Queen. When the vocalist 
visited Berlin a few years ago the Queen 
sent a telegram to the Crown Princess, speak- 
ing in the highest terms of the great singer ; 
and this telegram is here preserved. Once 
every year Her Majesty visits her favourite 
at Old Mar Lodge, and takes tea there, and 
many are the H private appearances " at 
Balmoral, when the Queen often listens to 
the delightful voice in many an old song 
and ballad of which she is so fond. It was 
when Her Majesty was paying her customary 
visit to the old hunting lodge of the Duke 
of Fife that she brought with her the 
Jubilee portrait of herself which hangs near 
the drawing-room mantel-board, framed in 
gold and surmounted with a crown. Look 
along the mantel-board — every photo bears 
the autograph of the giver. The Prince 
and Princess of Wales are in ivory frames, 

symphony of amber and cream. The 
elaborately-worked cushions and foot- 
stools, the chairs, almost in miniature, 
and exquisitely draped, the tables posi- 
tively loaded with gifts, are innumerable. 
One table is set out with silver trinkets — 
silver ships, fishes, horses, scent bottles, and 
even snuff boxes. ■ At the far end of the 
room is a cabinet filled with valuable pieces 
of china, and close by is a bust of Madame 
Albani bv the same Royal sculptor who exe- 
cuted that of her son. Here, too, is a harp, for 
the singer is a brilliant harpist, and her 
fingers often run over the strings, The piano 
is a useful-looking one, and it need be, for its 
keys are severely and incessantly worked. An 
interesting photo stands here on a crimson 
plush easel. It is that of the Princess 
Frederica of Hanover, who, being desiious 
of being photographed as Jilsa in "Lohen- 
grin," borrowed the real costume in 
the shape of the identical cloak and veil 
worn by Madame Albani when singing in the 
character. An interesting gift, too, is that 
of a fine vase presented to heT by the Em- 
press Augusta of Germany. It shows the 

Original from 



From o -PAofci. *»r] T 

and near to them are the Duke and Duchess 
of Fife and the Duke and Duchess of West- 
minster. Here, again, is the Oueeu with 
one of the Duke of Connaught's children, 
the old Emperor of Germany and Princess 

The dining- room is an apartment remark- 
able for its fine oak furniture — a beautifully 
carved sideboard and 
quaint clerical -look- 
ing high- back chairs. 
The table— which for the 
moment is florally 
decorated with sweet-peas 
which have evidently 
strayed from the great A 
—is lighted by a trio of 
electric lights beneath an 
immense crimson shade. 
The room contains many 
fine oil paintings, and 
against a chair, presum- 
ably waiting to fill a place 
on the wall, is an en- 
graving of the Jubilee 
picture of the scene in 
Westminster Abbey, 
showing Madame Albani 
standing next to Miss 
Ellen Terry. A fine 
water-colour shows a glen. *v m« j'»«*o, hi 

with the 
smoke of Old 
Mar Lodge 
rising. This is 
the resting- 
place of 
Madame Al- 
bani for two 
months every 
year. It is a 
quaint 'old 
Scotch house, 
possessing a 
grand garden, 
where the 
singer frankly 
admits she 
spends her 
time in gather- 
ing flowers 
and eating 
Here, too, her 
abilities as an amateur gardener 
and angler have full play. 
Every morning, after breakfast, 
the beds have her close atten- 
tion for one allotted hour, and 
then, with rod and line, she will sit on the 
banks of the Dee, and many a good trout 
and weighty salmon have responded to her 
silent invitation to take "a bite." 

A little conservatory, sweet with fuchsias 
and gay with ferns and palms, where Miss 
Lajeunesse — Madame Albani's sister — is 
just now engaged in watering them, leads 

<tt £ Fry, 



from the dining- 
room to the gar- 
den, with its beds 
and banks of ferns, 
marguerites, blue- 
bells, and scarlet 
geraniums. Be- 
neath a leafy arch 
the singer, in our 
illustration, is seen 

Just then the 
clock in the dining- 
room chimes five 
— a suggestive 
warning that in 
the prettiest corner 
of the drawing- 
room a little table 
is laid out for tea ; 
for it was during 
such an essentially 
Ketisingtonian r*m a t'xoto. w 
ceremony as M five 

o'clock tea " that I learnt from Madame 
Albani's lips the story of her life. It is no 
easy matter to describe the famous singer. 


She is a handsome woman, of unbounded 
vivacity, and speaks with a charming 
French accent. She accompanies her story 
with constant gesture, and is always 
smiling. She will look at you and 
speak most seriously, but her eyes are 
ever twinkling with merriment. She 
is a delightful woman, who has won 
her present position to-day by sheer 
hard work. 

"What am I to tell you? What 
am I to tell you ? " she exclaims, 
(touring out a cup of tea. a Shall I go 
back to many, many years ago, when 
as a tiny mite of two and a half I used 
to watch my father's fingers on the 
violin, as I stood by his side and tried 
to sing each note ? Well, I will. 
That was at Chambly, near Montreal, 
where I was bom on November i, 
1851, in a little house that was so 
small, that when they wanted to make 
some alterations in the neighbourhood, 
they lifted it up and moved it away 
bodily. But it is not destroyed. ■ 
Another spot was found for it. My 
father was a professor of music and 
organist, and at that early age I com- 
menced to study. I have heard him 
say that I sang before I talked. When 
I was four my mother also looked after 
my musical training, and a year later 
I was practising five and six hours 
every day. I often used to practise 
then two hours every morning before 



breakfast, and get through a hundred and 
fifty pages of music a day. When I was 
seven my mother died, and I can yet 
remember how one morning my father 
suddenly came into the room, and stood at 
the door with a surprised look, as he 
listened to me singing 
my favourite little bits 
out of such operas as 
"Lucrezia Borgia," 
"Martha, ''and "NoTma." 
" One day my father 
and I were' at a large 
store where 1 used to 
practise on the piano, 
and a Scotchman, who 
was giving concerts, in 
Montreal, came in. I 
was eight years old at 
the time, and he per- 
suaded my father to let 
me sing at a concert. 
I did, and I had to give 
three concerts, and every 
night the stage used to 
be strewn with flowers. 
Flowers ! Why, do you know I once had 
a great floral trophy given to me that took 
three men to bring on to the stage ? It was 

O"" & 

all composed ot roses, and was a gift from 
the ladies of Philadelphia. 

" When I was nine, I entered the convent 
of The Saered Heart, at 
Sault-au-Recollet I was 
organist there, and remained 
there several years, and 
after leaving we went to 
live at Albany. Ah! 
does that name 
strike you ? Yes, 
you are quite cor- 
rect. After studying 
in Paris under 
Duprez, and after- 
wards with Lam- 
perti, at Milan, 1 
made my debut there 
in 1870 as Amina 
in "Sonnambula," 
under the name of 
Albani, out of re- 
membrance of the 
city, the people of 
which helped me so 
much, and where 1 
think my future 
career was decided 
upon. You see, I 
just changed the 
last letter to i, and 
that gave me my 
operatic nans. 1 



well remember that first appearance. I 

had no friends in the house that night, but 

T was not nearly so 

nervous as I felt when I f^S^ ~M X 

I sang in "Otello" 

for the first time, 

many years afterwards. . ;, ^ , : 

returned with a huge parcel wrapped 
up in a beautiful lace shawl. I opened 




When one is eighteen one has no fear. At 

the first rehearsal 1 trembled a little bit, 

for, you see, I was 

French-Canadian, and 

not Italian, but at the 

finish of my first song 

my brother and sister 

artistes took me up 

and almost carried me 

to my room. 

"It was there — at 
Messina — that I very 
nearly made the ac- 
quaintance of a 
madman ; at any rate, 
I am sorry to say that 
I was the means of 
sending him back to 
the lunatic asylum 
again. In Italy pre- 
sents to artistes are 
very numerous, and 
people pay one all 
sorts of attentions. It 
was the morning after 
the opera, and I was just dressed. My 
maid came to me and said there was a 
gentleman who wanted to see me below on 
most important business. I despatched 
my maid to say that I was very busv, 
when, a few minutes afterwards, she 

prise, were all 
kinds of jewellery 
— chains, lockets, 
diamond ear- 
rings, bracelets, 
brooches, and 
trinkets innumer- 
able. I returned 
them at once, 
and it transpired 
that only the 
previous day the 
sender had been 
discharged from 
the asylum at 
Naples as quite 
cured. The same 
night he had 
come to the 

'-'-' • - opera, and, I 

^ ■ ' suppose, liked my singing. 

Where did the jewels come 
from ? They belonged to his 
wife. He had stripped her 

jewel cases of everything. Poor fellow ! 

he was sent back to Naples again. 



"It was in Italy, too, that the opera house me that she does not keep one specially in 

came very near to being burnt down, and the house to ensure good fortune entering 

this little incident will just show you how at the front door. But, she has " Chat," 

calm the generally considered impetuous her pet terrier — a. fine young fellow, who 

Italian can be in case of emergency. It lies on the rug at the foot of the piano, and 

was towards the end of the second act, when listens to every note whilst his mistress 

suddenly I saw 
one of the ballet 
dancers rush out 
of her room with 
her thin dress 
ablaze. The room 
where the dan- 
cers dressed was 
on fire. We had 
to pass it to get 
out into the 
street near the 
stage door. They 
covered me up in 
great shawls and 
carried me out to 
a cafe opposite. 
The fire was put 
out in twenty 
minutes. I re- 
turned to the 
theatre, we 
finished the 
opera, and every- 
body enjoyed it 
just as though 
nothing had hap- 

u I made my 
dibut in London 
at Covent Garden 
on April 2, 1872, 
in my favourite 
Amino, and I 
don't mind con- 
fessing that I 
attributed a great 
deal of my success 
that night to the 
sudden appear- 
ance of a big black cat. I am very 
superstitious. I always occupy the same 
room at the theatre — it is one of the 
largest in the house. Just as I was alt 
ready, and preparing to go on to the stage, 
the door was slowly and silently pushed 
open, and one of the biggest black cats 
imaginable peeped in and looked up at 
me. Oh ! how delighted I was ! Yes, I 
don't wonder at your smiling, but a black 
cat has always been a lucky thing for me, 
and I would welcome one at any time ;" and 
the gifted artiste laughs heartily as she tells 

ii /■/.,.(.., r.[,< , !:■/ Unit.', ,1: itilttUv'ii 

"Chat" is clever, 
too, and would 
be a distinct 
acquisition to 
any performing 

For a moment 
Madame Albani 
rearranges some 
of the flowers in 
the room, and, as 
she handles a 
particularly fine 
bouquet of crim- 
son roses, a smile 
comes over her 

" It was just 
like that,' 1 she 
quietly remarks, 
with the smile 
still there, and 
weighing the 
bunch of flowers 
somewhat mis- 
chievously and 
meditatively in 
her hands. And 
then the recollec- 
tion which had 
made her smile 
leaked out. The 
stage of Covent 
Garden Theatre 
was the scene. 
Amid intense 
e x ci temen t, 
amongst the 
flowers thrown 
bouquet con- 

over the footlights was 
taining a bracelet. But, unfortunately for 
poor Madame Albani, the aim was not 
straight, the roses were not as soft as they 
are generally supposed to be, and the floral 
missile, instead of landing gracefully before 
her feet, struck her on the head. The 
artiste laughed most heartily as she re- 
membered this little incident, 

" Since I commenced my career I have 
sung in some strange places. One of my 
most remarkable experiences was in Russia, 
at the Royal marriage. In Russia the 


OF .' 




singers are all considered as servants. 
Well, it was most strange. We were all 
put in a sort of balcony which looked down 
upon the banqueting scene below, and as 
each of our turns came to sing, we went to a 
little opening and sang through it- What 
amused me was this, that all the time we were 
trying to sing our best, and produce our 
notes most effectively, the clatter of knives 
and forks still went on, and to make all 
complete, the singer might be in a most 
impressive passage and right in the midst of 
it, when, quite regardless of the uncomplain- 
ing singers, there would 
be a flourish of trumpets 
and somebody would get 
up and propose a toast. 
I was more fortunate 
than Madame Patti, for 
she was interrupted in 
the middle of her solo. 

11 Yes, I have often had 
requests to sing beside a 
deathbed or a person very 
ill. I sang to the old 
Bishop of Albany when 
he was suffering. The 
first festival I ever sang 
in was at Norwich, and 
when 1 returned to that 
place after six years, I 
had a letter from an old 
gentleman who heard 
me there, and who was now bedridden. He 
wanted to hear ' The Last Rose of Summer,' 
and I shall never forget standing there by 
his side and singing that beautiful song. And 
many a time have I had to convert the 
balcony of the hotel where 1 was staying 
into a temporary platform, and appear at 
midnight, long after the opera was over, and 
sing ' Home, sweet Home,' or some such 
popular ballad to the people waiting outside. 
That was the case at Dublin some few 
years ago, when the students there took 
the horses out of my carriage, and I was told 
that if I did not sing they would break the 
windows of the hotel. I stood on the 
balcony, wrapped up in great shawls, for it 
was a bitterly cold night, and it was no easy 
matter to sing ' The Last Rose of Summer ' 
under those circumstances. 

" I have sung, too, in the quiet little 
. church at Braemar in the choir, and it was 
there that I received what I have always 
considered one of my greatest compliments. 
The speaker was one of the mountain folk, and 
had never even been to Edinburgh. When 
the service was over a friend of mine heard 

him say, " I never thought anybody could 
have such control over one's voice." That 
was all, but that is the whole secret of a 
singer's success — perfect control.'' 

Then it was that I learned something 
about Madame Albani s method of study- 
ing. Like all great singers, she has one 
hard and fast rule which binds her house- 
hold. When rehearsing nobody is ever 
allowed to disturb her. Her soul is in her 
work just as earnestly in the drawing-room 
as on the stage. She is a remarkably quick 
study, a thing she attributes to her arduous 
though enjoyable train- 
ing in her early child- 
hood. Madame Albani 
studied and sang M Lo- 
hengrin " in a fortnight, 
and she has been equally 
rapid in gaining her 
knowledge of such 
lengthy studies as Mar- 
ghcrita, Ophclt'a^ Mignott, 
Ehsabetla, Lucia, and 
other operatic characters 
which will always be 
associated with her name. 
When she is about to 
take up a new character, 
she will first of all sit 
down quietly in the 
wicker chair in the conser- 
vatory, or in some quiet 
and undisturbablc comer about the house, 
and taking the score in her lap, run through 
the music. Then she devotes herself to 
the words. Having learnt these, she now sits 
down to the piano, and commences work in 
real earnest. Having learnt both words and 
music, the services of an accompanist are 
called in, and, as she plays, Madame 
Albani will take up her position in the 
room, and, imagining the other characters 
about her, rehearse piece by piece. The 
morning preceding the opera she will go 
through every note to be sung in the even* 
ing. After all this individual work it is 
psssible that she may get three piano re- 
hearsals at the theatre, two fully orchestral, 
and one for action and situations. 

She likes " Otello " best of any opera. 
She learnt the music of it in a fortnight. 

" But," once more resumes the artiste, 
" there is much more to think about 
besides words and music. I read my Shake- 
speare well, and the operatic singer must 
realise the character to be ' sung,' just as 
much as the actor must realise the part he 
is to play. I design uii my own dresses, 



and get most of my ideas from South Ken- 
sington Museum. Sometimes I see a figure 
in a picture that strikes me, and I may 
barrow a sleeve from that, and a design for 
a bodice from another. These costumes 
when made up cost from 70 to 80 guineas, 
and some much more. I have dresses for 
twenty operas, and many operas require 
three or four distinct changes of costume. 
The expense of these does not include 
jewels? Oh ! dear, no ; the jewellery I wear 
on them would make them worth many, 
many hundreds of pounds, Will I show 
you my jewels ? Just wait a moment." 

She leaves the room for a moment, and 
then returns 
with a big bun- 
dle of letters and 
a great bag. 

"These letters 
are all applica- 
tions for my 
autograph. I 
get them from 
all parts of the 
world — In dia, 
Australia, New 
Zealand. When 
I have collected 
a couple of hun- 
dred of them, I 
just clear them 
all over at once, 
devoting a 
morning to the 
t a s k." Then 
opening the bag, 
a score of cases 
are brought out, 
the lids of which 
when raised pre- 
sent to the view 
gifts from every 
Royal personage 
in Europe. One 
by one Madame 
Albani takes 
them out- Here 
is a cross of 
sparkling gems 
presented to her 
by the late Em- 
peror of Russia, 
and a diamond 
star and a but- 

favourite artiste, the subscribers collect as 
much money as they possibly can, and 
spend it in providing presents. The body 
of the butterfly — which I have in my 
hand — is one great emerald, and the wings 
are of rubies and diamonds. This is a 
gold medal from the old German Em- 
peror, who appointed Madame Albani 
Court singer the last year he was alive. It 
was struck to commemorate his 80th year 
in the army, and the 90th year of his age, 
and was a reward to the artiste for having 
specially studied German in order to sing 
1 Lohengrin ' in the language of the 

Many are the 
presents from 
the Queen — a 
gold cross set 
with emeralds 
and diamonds, 
and a glance at 
Madame Al- 
bani's wrist 
shows two mag* 
nificent brace- 
lets which she 
always wears. 
They are both 
of gold ; one is 
set with emer- 
alds and dia- 
monds, a gift 
from Her Ma- 
jesty, and the 
other is of ru- 
bies and dia- 
monds, from the 
Princess of 

Again the 
clock is heard 
chiming, and 
the watchful 
" Chat " follows 
me to the top of 
the steps which 
lead into "Our 
Village." Again 
the sounds of 
the piano are 
heard ; a voice 
— which has 
reached many a . 
heart — is sing- 

1 ■■...*!,.■,.-;■). i^™» 

terfly of jewels given by the subscribers ing. As I hurry away I am inclined to envy 

to the opera at St. Petersburg and Moscow, those who often have to pass by the house 

In Russia, on the benefit night of a I have just left. Hakhy How. 

(~* nr\cs\(> Original from 


By Bket Harte 

0HE mail stage had just passed 
Laurel Run. So raptdly that 
the whirling cloud of dust 
dragged with it down the 
steep grade from the summit 
hung over the level long after 
the stage had vanished, and then, drifting 
away, slowly sifted a red precipitate over the 
hot platform of the Laurel Run Post-office. 
Out of this cloud presently emerged the 
neat figure of the Postmistress with the 
mail bag which had been dexterously flung 
at her feet from the top of the passing 
vehicle. A dozen loungers eagerly stretched 
out their hands to assist her, but the warn- 
ing : " It's agin the rules, boys, for any but 
her to touch it," from a bystander, and a 
coquettish shake of the head from the Post- 
mistress herself — much more effective than 
any official interdict — withheld them. The 
bag was not heavy — Laurel Run was too 
recent a settlement to have attracted much 
correspondence— and the young woman, 
having pounced upon her prey with a 
certain feline instinct, dragged it, not with- 
out difficulty, behind the partitioned en- 
closure in the office, and locked the door. 
Her pretty face, momentarily visible 
through the window, was slightly flushed 
with the exertion, and the loose ends of 
her fair hair, wet with perspiration, curled 
themselves over her forehead into tantalis- 
ing little rings. But the window shutter 

was quickly closed, and this momentary 
but charming vision withdrawn from the 
waiting public. 

" Guv'ment oughter have more sense 
than to make a woman pick mail bags 
outer the road," said Jo Simmons, 
sympathetically. M 'Tain't in her day's work 
anyhow ; Guv'ment oughter hand 'em 
over to her like a lady ; it's rich enough 
and ugly enough." 

" 'Tain't Guv'ment ; it's that Stage 
Company's airs and graces," interrupted a 
newcomer. u They think it mighty fine 
to go beltin' by, makin 1 everybody take 
their dust — just because stQ^put 1 ain't in 
their contract. Why, if that express-man 
who chucked down the bag had any feelin's 
for a lady—" but he stopped here at the 
amused faces of his auditors. 

" Guess you don't know much o' that 
express-man's feelin's, stranger," said Sim- 
mons grimly. "Why, you oughter see 
him just nussin 1 that bag like a baby as he 
comes tearin' down the grade, and then 
rise up and sorter heave it to Mrs. Baker 
ez if it was a five dollar bokay! His 
feelin's for her I Why, he's give himself so 
dead away to her that we're looking for 
him to forget what he's doin' next, and 
just come sail in' down hissclf at her feet." 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the par- 
tition, Mrs. Baker had brushed the red dust 
from the padlocked bag, and removed what 




seemed to be a supplementary package 
attached to it by a wire. Opening it she 
found a handsome scent-bottle, evidently a 
superadded gift from the devoted express- 
man. This she put aside with a slight 
smile and the murmured word, " Foolish- 
ness." But when she had unlocked the 
bag, even its sacred interior was also pro- 
faned by a covert parcel frotn the adjacent 
postmaster at Burnt Ridge, containing a 
gold "specimen" brooch and some circus 
tickets. It was laid aside with the other. 
This' also was vanity and— presumably — 
vexation of spirit. 

There were seventeen letters in all, of 
which five were for herself — and yet the 
proportion was small that morning. Two 
of them were marked " Official business," 
and were promptly put by with feminine 
discernment ; but in another compartment 
than that holding the pre- 
sents. Then the shutter was 
opened, and the task of deli- 
very commenced. 

It was accompanied with 
a social peculiarity that had 
in time become a habit of 
Laurel Run. As the young 
woman delivered the letters, 
10 turn, to the men who were 
patiently drawn up in Indian 
file, she made that simple act 
a medium of privileged but 
limited conversation on 
special or general topics — 
gay or serious as the case 
might be — or the tempera- 
ment of the man suggested. 
That it was almost always of 
a complimentary character 
on their part may be readily 
imagined ; but it was invari- 
ably characterised by an 
element of refined restraint, 
and, whether from some im- 
plied understanding or indi- 
vidual sense of honour-^it 
never passed the bounds of 
conventionality or a certain 
delicacy of respect. The 
delivery was consequently more or less 
protracted, but when each man had ex- 
changed his three or four minutes' conver- 
sation with the fair Postmistress — a con- 
versation at times impeded by bash fulness 
or timidity, on his part solely^ or restricted 
ofien to vague smiling — he resignedly made 
way for the next. It was a formal levee, 
mitigated by the informality of rustic tact, 

great good humour, and infinite patience, 
and would have been amusing, had it not 
always been terribly in earnest and at times 
touching. For it was peculiar to the place 
and the epoch, and indeed implied the whole 
history of Mrs. Baker. 

She was the wife of John Baker, foreman 
of " The Last Chance," now for a year lying 
dead under half a mile of crushed and 
beaten in tunnel at Burnt Ridge. There 
had been a sudden outcry from the depths 
at high hot noontide one day, and John 
had rushed from his cabin— his young, 
foolish, flirting wife clinging to htm — to 
answer that despairing cry of his impri- 
soned men. There was one exit that he 
alone knew which might be yet held open, 
among falling walls and tottering timbers, 
long enough to set them free. For one 
moment only the strong man hesitated 

between heT entreating arms and his 
brothers' despairing cry. But she rose 
sudden! v with a pale face, and said, " Go, 
John ; I will wait for you here." He wenr, 
the men were freed — but she had waited 
for him ever since ! 

Yet in the shock of the calamity and in 
the after struggles of that poverty which 
had come to the ruined camp, she had 




scarcely changed. But the men had. Al- 
though she was to all appearances the same 
giddy, pretty Betsy Baker, who had been 
so disturbing to the younger members, they 
seemed to be no longer disturbed by her. 
A certain subdued awe and respect, as if 
the martyred spirit of John Baker still held 
his arm around her, appeared to have come 
upon them all. They held their breath as 
this pretty woman, whose brief mourning 
had not seemed to affect her cheerfulness or 
even playfulness of spirit, passed before 
them. But she stood by her cabin and the 
camp— the only woman in a settlement of 
forty men — during the darkest hours of 
their fortune. Helping them to wash and 
cook, and ministering to their domestic 
needs ; the sanctity of her cabin was, how- 
ever, always kept as inviolable as if it had 
been his tomb. No one exactly knew why, 
for it was only a tacit instinct ; but even one 
or two who had not scrupled to pay court 
to Betsy Baker during John Baker's life, 
shrank from even a suggestion of familiarity 
towards the woman who had said that she 
would " wait for him there." 

When brighter days came and the settle- 
ment had increased by one or two families, 
and laggard capital had been hurried up to 
relieve the still beleaguered and locked-up 
wealth of Burnt Ridge, the needs of the 
community and the claims of the widow of 
John Baker were so well told in political 
quarters that the post-office of Laurel Run 
was created expressly for her. Every man 
participated in the building of the pretty 
yet substantial edifice — the only public 
building of Laurel Run— that stood in the 
dust of the great highway, half a mile from 
the settlement. There she was installed for 
certain hours of the day, for she could not 
be prevailed upon to abandon John's cabin, 
and here, with all the added respect due to 
a public functionary, she was secure in her 

But the blind devotion of Laurel Run to 
John Baker's relict did not stop here. In 
its zeal to assure the Government authori- 
ties of the necessity for a post-office, and to 
secure a permanent competency to the post- 
mistress, there was much embarrassing 
extravagance. During the first week the 
sale of stamps at Laurel Run Post-office 
was unprecedented in the annals of the 
Department. Fancy prices were given for 
the first issue ; then they were bought 
wildly, recklessly, unprofitably, and on all 
occasions. Complimentary congratulation 
at the little window invariably ended with 

" and a dollar's worth of stamps, Mrs. 
Baker." It was felt to be supremely delicate 
to buy only the highest priced stamps, 
without reference to their adequacy ; then 
mere quantity was sought ; then outgoing 
letters were all overpaid, and stamped in 
outrageous proportion to their weight and 
even size. The imbecility of this, and its 
probable effect on the reputation of Laurel 
Run at the General Post-office, being 
pointed out by Mrs. Baker, stamps were 
adopted as local currency, and even for 
decorative purposes on mirrors and the walls 
of cabins. Everybody wrote letters, with 
the result, however, that those sent were 
ludicrously and suspiciously in excess or 
those received. To obviate this, select 
parties made forced journeys to Hickory 
Hill, the next post-office, with letters and 
circulars addressed to themselves at Laurel 
Run. How long the extravagance would 
have continued is not known, but it was 
not until it was rumoured that, in conse- 
quence of this excessive flow of business, the 
Department had concluded that a post- 
master would be better fitted for the place 
that it abated, and a compromise was effected 
with the General Office by a permanent 
salary to the Postmistress. 

Such was the history of Mrs. Baker, who 
had just finished her afternoon levee, 
nodded a smiling " good-bye " to her last 
customer, and closed her shutter again. 
Then she took up her own letters, but, 
before reading them, glanced, with a pretty 
impatience, at the two official envelopes 
addressed to herself, which she had shelved. 
They were generally a " lot of new rules, " 
or notifications, or " absurd " questions 
which had nothing to do with Laurel Run, 
and only bothered her and " made her head 
ache," and she had usually referred them to 
her admiring neighbour at Hickory Hill for 
explanation, who had generally returned 
them to her with the brief endorsement, 
" Purp stuff, don't bother," or, "Hog 
wash, let it slide." She remembered now 
that he had not returned the two last. 
With knitted brows and a slight pout she 
put aside her private correspondence and 
tore open the first one. It referred with 
official curtness to an unanswered com- 
munication of the previous week, and was 
"compelled to remind her of rule 47." 
Again those horrid rules ! She opened the 
other ; the frown deepened on her brow, 
and became fixed. 

It was a summary of certain valuable 
money letters that had miscarried on the 
Original from 


route, and of which they 
had given her previous 
information. For a mo- 
ment her cheeks blazed. 
How dare they ; what did 
they mean I Her way- 
bills and register were 
always right ; she knew 
the names of every man, 
woman, and child in her 
district ; no such names 
as those borne by the miss- 
ing tetters had ever ex- 
isted at Laurel Run ; no 
such addresses had ever 
been sent from Laurel 
Run post-office. It was 
a mean insinuation ! She 
would send in her resig- 
nation at once ! She 
would get " the boys " to 
write an insulting letter to 
Senator Slocumb — Mrs. 
Baker had the feminine 
idea of Government as 
a purely personal institu- 
tion — and she would find 
out who it was that had 
put them up to this pry- 
ing, crawling impudence ! 
It was probably that wall-eyed old wife of 
the postmaster at Heavy Tree Crossing, 
who was jealous of her. " Remind her 
of their previous unanswered communica- 
tion/' indeed ! Where was that communi- 
cation, anyway? She remembered she 
had sent it to her admirer at Hickory Hilt. 
Odd that he hadn't answered it. Of 
course, he knew all about this meanness — 
could he, too, have dared to suspect her ! 
The thought turned her crimson again. 
He, Stanton Green, was an old "Laurel 
Runner,'' a friend of John's, a little 
ki trifliti' " and "presoomin','' but still an old 
loyal pioneer of the camp ! " Why hadn't 
he spoke up? " 

There was the soft muffled fall of a 
horse's hoof in the thick dust of the high- 
way, the jingle of dismounting spurs, and a 
firm tread on the platform. No doubt, ont- 
of the boys returning for a few supple- 
mental remarks under the feeble pretence 
of forgotten stamps. It had been done 
before, and she had resented it as "cayotin 1 
round " ; but now she was eager to pour 
out her wrongs to the first comer. She 
had her hand impulsively on the door of 
the partition, when she stopped with a new 
sense of her impaired dignity. Could she 

confess this to her worshippers ? But here 
the door opened in her very face and a 
stranger entered. 

He was a man of fifty, compactly and 
strongly built. A squarely cut goatee, 
slightly streaked with grey, fell straight 
from his thin-lipped but handsome mouth ; 
his eyes were dark, humorous, yet search- 
ing. But the distinctive quality that struck 
Mrs. Baker was the blending of urban ease 
with frontier frankness. He was evidently 
a man who had seen cities and knew 
countries as well. And while he was 
dressed with the comfortable simplicity of 
a Californian mounted traveller, her inex- 
perienced but feminine eye detected the key- 
note of his respectability in the carefully 
tied bow of his cravat. The Sierrean throat 
was apt to be open, free, and unfettered. 

" Good morning, Mrs. Baker," he said, 
pleasantly, with his hat already in his hand. 
"I'm Harry Home, of San Francisco.-' 
As he spoke his eye swept approvingly 
over the neat enclosure, the primly-tied 
papets, and well-kept pigeon holes ; the 
pot of flowers on her desk ; her china silk 
mantle, and killing little chip hat and 
ribbons hanging against the wall ; thence 
to her own pink flushed face, bright blue 





eyes, tendrilled clinging hair, and then — 
fell upon the leathern mail bag still lying 
across the table. Here it became fixed on 
the unfortunate wire of the amorous ex- 
press-man that yet remained hanging from 
the brass wards of the lock, and he reached 
his hand toward it. 

But little Mrs. Baker was before him, and 
had seized it in her arms. She had been 
too pre-occupied and bewildered to resent 
his first intrusion behind the partition, but 
this last familiarity with her sacred official 
property — albeit empty — capped the climax 
of her wrongs. 

" How dare you touch it ! " she said in- 
dignantly. " How dare you come in here ! 
Who are you, anyway ? Go outside at 
once ! " 

The stranger fell back with an amused, 
deprecatory gesture, and a long, silent 
laugh. " I'm afraid you don't know me, 
after all ! " he said, pleasantly. " I'm 
Harry Home, the Department Agent from 
the San Francisco office. My note of ad- 
vice, No. 20 1, with my name on the en- 
velope, seems to have miscarried too." 

Even in her fright and astonishment it 
flashed upon Mrs. Baker that she had sent 
that notice, too, to Hickory Hill. But with 
it all the feminine secretive instinct within 
her was now thoroughly aroused, and she 
kept silent. 

" I ought to have explained," he went on 
smilingly ; " but you are quite right, Mrs. 
Baker," he added, nodding towards the 
bag. "As far as you knew, I had no 
business to go near it. Glad to see you 
know how to defend Uncle Sam's property 
so well. I was only a bit puzzled to know " 
(pointing to the wire) " if that thing was 
on the bag when it was delivered to you ? " 

Mrs. Baker saw no reason to conceal the 
truth. After all, this official was a man 
like the others, and it was just as well that 
he should understand her power. " It's 
only the express-man's foolishness," she 
said, with a slightly coquettish toss of her 
head. "He thinks it smart to tie some 
nonsense on that bag with the wire when 
he flings it down." 

Mr. Home, with his eyes on her pretty 
face, seemed to think it a not inhuman or 
unpardonable folly. "As long as he 
doesn't meddle with the inside of the bag, 
I suppose you must put up with it," he 
said, laughingly. A dreadful recollection 
that the Hickory Hill postmaster had used 
the inside of the bag to convey his foolish- 
ness, came across her. It would never do 

to confess it now. Her face must have 
shown some agitation, for the official re- 
sumed with a half-paternal, half-reassuring 
air, "But enough of this. Now, Mrs. 
Baker, to come to my business here ! 
Briefly, then, it doesn't concern you in the 
least, except so far as it may relieve you 
and some others whom the Department 
knows equally well from a certain respon- 
sibility, and, perhaps, anxiety. We are pretty 
well posted down there in all that concerns 
Laurel Run, and I think " (with a slight 
b iw), " we've known all about you and 
John Baker. My only business here is to 
take your place to-night in receiving the 
' Omnibus Way Bag,' that you know arrives 
here at 9.30, doesn't it ? " 

" Yes, sir," said Mrs. Baker, hurriedly ; 
" but it never has anything for us, ex- 
cept " (she caught herself up quickly, 

with a stammer, as she remembered the 
sighing Green's occasional offerings), " ex- 
cept a notification from Hickory Hill Post- 
office. It leaves there," she went on with 
an affectation of precision, "at half-past 
eight exactly, and it's about an hour's run 
— seven miles by road." 

" Exactly," said Mr. Home. " Well, I 
will receive the bag, open it, and despatch 
it again. You can, if you choose, take a 

" But," said Mrs. Baker, as she remem- 
bered that Laurel Run always made a point 
of attending her evening levee on account 
of the superior leisure it offered, "there are 
the people who come for letters, you 

" I thought you said there were no let- 
ters at that time," said Mr. Home, 

" No— but — but — " (with a slight hyste- 
rical stammer) "the boys come all the 

" Oh ! " said Mr Home, dryly. 

" And— O Lord ! — " But here the 
spectacle of the possible discomfiture ot 
Laurel Run at meeting the bearded face or 
Mr. Home, instead of her own smooth ■ 
cheeks, at the window, combined with her 
nervous excitement, overcame her so that, 
throwing her little frilled apron over her 
head, she gave way to a paroxysm 01 
hysterical laughter. Mr. Home waited 
with amused toleration for it to stop, and, 
when she had recovered, resumed. " Now, 
I should like to refer an instant to my first 
communication to you. Have you got it 
handy ? " 

Mrs. Baker's face fell. " No : I sent it 




2 33 

over to Mr. Green, of Hickory Hill, for 
" What ! " 

Terrified at the sudden seriousness of the 
man's voice, she managed to gasp out, how- 
ever, that, after her usual habit, she had 
not opened the official letters, but had sent 
them to her more experienced colleague far 
advice and information ; that she never 
could understand them herself — they made 
her head ache, and interfered with her 
other duties — but lie understood them, and 
sent her word what to do. Remembering, 
also, his. usual style of endorsement, she 
grew red again. 

" And what did he say ? " 
" Nothing ; he didn't'return them." 
" Naturally," said Mr. Home, with a 
peculiar expression. 
After a few moments* 
silent stroking of his 
beard, he suddenly 
faced the frightened 


"You oblige me, Mrs. Baker, to speak 
more frankly to you than I had intended. 
You have— unwittingly, I believe— given 
information to a man whom the Govern- 
ment suspects of peculation. You have, 
without knowing it, warned the Post- 
master at Hickory Hill that he is suspected ; 
and, as you might have frustrated our 

plans for tracing a series of embezzlements 
to their proper source, you will see that 
you might have also done great wrong to 
yourself as his only neighbour and the next 
responsible person. In plain words, we 
have traced the disappearance of money 
letters to a point when it lies between 
these two offices. Now, I have not the 
least hesitation in telling you that we do 
not suspect Laurel Run, and never have 
suspected it. Even the result of your 
thoughtless act, although it warned him, 
confirms our suspicion of his guilt. As to 
the warning, it has failed, or he has grown 
reckless, for another letter has been missed 
since. To-night, however, will settle all 
doubt in the matter. When I open that 
bag in this office to-night, and do not find 
a certain decoy letter 
in it, which was last 
checked at Heavytree 
Crossing, I shall know 
that it remains in 
Green's possession at 
Hickory Hilt." 

She was sitting back 
in her chair, white 
and breathless. He 
glanced at her kindly, 
and then took up his 
hat. " Come, Mrs. 
Baker, don't let this 
worry you. As I told 
you at first, you have 
nothing to fear. Even 
your thoughtlessness 
and ignorance of rules 
has contributed to 
show your own inno- 
! cence. Nobody will 
/ ever be the wiser for 
this ; we do not ad- 
vertise uur affairs in 
the Department. 
Not a soul but your- 
self knows the real 
cause of my visit here, 
I will leave you here 
alone for a while, so 
as to divert any sus- 
picion. You will 
come, as usual, this evening, and be seen 
by your friends ; I will only be here when 
the' bag arrives, to open it. Good-bye, 
Mrs. Baker ; it's a nasty bit of business, but 
it's all in the day's work. I've seen worse, 
and, thank God,' you're out of it" 

She heard his footsteps retreat into the 
outer office; and di? out of the platform ; 




the jingle of his spurs, and the hollow beat 
of his horsehoofs that seemed to find a dull 
echo in her own heart, and she was alone. 

The room was very hot and very quiet ; 
she could hear the warping and creaking of 
the shingles under the relaxing of the 
nearly level sunbeams. The office clock 
struck seven. In the breathless silence that 
followed, a woodpecker took up his inter- 
rupted work on the roof, and seemed to beat 
out monotonously in her ear the last words 
of the stranger : Stanton Green — a thief ! 
Stanton Green, one of the " boys " John 
had helped out of the falling tunnel ! 
Stanton Green, whose old mother in the 
States still wrote letters to him at Laurel 
Run, in a few hours to be a disgraced and 
ruined man for ever ! She remembered 
now, as a thoughtless woman remembers, 
tales of his extravagance and fast living, of 
which she had taken no heed, and, with a 
sense of shame, of presents sent her, that 
she now clearly saw must have been far 
beyond his means. What would the boys 
say ? what would John have said ? An ! 
what would John have done ! 

She started suddenly to her feet, white 
and cold as on that day that she had parted 
from John Baker before the tunnel. She 
put on her hat and mantle, and going to 
that little iron safe that stood in the corner, 
unlocked it, and took out its entire con- 
tents of gold and silver. She had reached 
the door when another idea seized her, and 
opening her desk she collected her stamps 
to the last sheet, and hurriedly rolled them 
up under her cape.. Then with a glance at 
the clock, and a rapid survey of the road 
from the platform, she slipped from it, and 
seemed to be swallowed up in the waiting 
woods beyond. 


Once within the friendly shadows of the 
long belt of pines, Mrs. Baker kept them . 
until she had left the limited settlement of 
Laurel Run far to the right, and came 
upon an open slope of Burnt Ridge, where 
she knew Jo Simmons' mustang, Blue 
Lightning, Avould be quietly feeding. She 
had often ridden him before, and when she 
had detached the fifty-foot riata from his 
headstall, he permitted her the further 
recognised familiarity of twining her fingers 
in his bluish mane, and climbing on his 
back. The tool shed of Burnt Ridge 
Tunnel, where Jo's saddle and bridle always 
hung, was but a canter further on. She 
reached it unperceived, and — another trick 

of the old days — quickly extemporised a 
side saddle from Simmons' Mexican tree, 
with its high cantle and horn bow, and the 
aid of a blanket. Then leaping to her seat, 
she rapidly threw off her mantle, tied it by 
its sleeves around her waist, tucked it under 
one knee, and let it fall over her horse's 
flanks. By this time Blue Lightning 
was also struck with a flash of equine recol- 
lection, and pricked up his ears. Mrs. 
Baker uttered a little chirping cry which 
he remembered, and the next moment they 
were both careering over the Ridge. 

The trail that she had taken, though 
precipitate, difficult, and dangerous in 
places, was a clear gain of two miles on the 
stage road. There was less chance of her 
being followed or meeting anyone. The 
greater canons were already in shadow ; the 
pines on the further ridges were separating 
their masses, and showing individual sil- 
houettes against the sky, but the air was 
still warm, and the cool breath of night, as 
she well knew it, had not yet begun to flow 
down the mountain. The lower range of 
Burnt Ridge was still uneclipsed by the 
creeping shadow of the mountain ahead of 
her. Without a watch, but with this fami- 
liar and slowly changing dial spread out 
before her, she knew the time to a minute. 
Heavy Tree Hill, a lesser height in the 
distance, was already wiped out by that 
shadowy index finger — half- past seven ! 
The stage would be at Hickory Hill just 
before half-past eight ; she ought to antici- 
pate it, if possible — it would stay ten 
minutes to change horses — she must arrive 
before it left ! 

There was a good two-mile level before 
the rise of the next range. Now, Blue 
Lightning ! all you know ! And that was 
much — for with thelittlechip hat and flutter- 
ing ribbons well bent down over the bluish 
mane, and the streaming gauze of her mantle 
almost level with the horse's back, she swept 
down across the long table-land like a 
skimming blue jay. A few more bird-like 
dips up and down the undulations, and 
then came the long, cruel ascent of the 

Acrid with perspiration, caking with dust, 
slithering in the slippery, impalpable powder 
of the road, groggily staggering in a red 
dusty dream, coughing, snorting, head- 
tossing ; becoming suddenly dejected, with 
slouching haunch and limp legs on easy 
slopes, or wildly spasmodic and agile on 
sharp acclivities, Blue Lightning began 
to have idean and recollections ! Ah 1 she 




was a devil for a lark — this lightly-clinging, 
caressing, blarneying, cooing creature — up 
there \ He remembered her now. Ha ! 
very well then. Hoop la ! And suddenly 
leaping out like a rabbit, bucking, trotting 
hard, ambling lightly, " loping " on three 
legs, and recreating himself — as only a Cali- 
fornian mustang could — the invincible Blue 
Lightning at last stood triumphantly upon 
the summit. The evening star had just 
pricked itself through the golden mist of 
the horizon line 
— eight o'clock ! 
She could do it 
now ! But here, 
suddenly, her 
first hesitation 
seized her. She 
knew her horse, 
she knew the 
trail, she knew 
herself— but did 
she know the 
man to whom 
she was riding ? 
A cold chill crept 
over her, and 
then she shivered 
in a sudden 
blast ; it was 
Night at last 
swooping down 
from the now in- 
visible Sierras, 
and possessing 
all it touched. 
But it was only 
one long descent 
to Hickory Hill 
now, and she 
swept down se- 
curely on its 
wings. Half- 
past eight ! The 
lights of the set- 
tlement were 
just ahead of her 
— but so, too, 
were the two 
lamps of the 
waiting stage be. 
fore the post- 
office and hotel. 

Happily the lounging crowd were gathered 
around the hotel, and she slipped into the 
post-office from the rear, un perceived. As 
she stepped behind the partition, its only 
occupant — a good-looking young fellow 
with a reddish moustache — turned towards 

her with a flush of delighted surprise. But 
it changed at the sight of the white, deter- 
mined face and the brilliant eyes that had 
never looked once towards him, but were 
fixed upon a large bag, who*e yawning 
mouth was still open and propped up beside 
his desk, 

M Where is the through money letter that 
came in that bag ? " she said, quickly. 

" What — do — you — mean ? ' he stam- 
mered, with a face that had suddenly grown 
whiter than her 

" I mean that 
it's a decoy, 
checked at Heavy 
Tree Crossing, 
and that Mr. 
Home, of San 
Francisco, is 
now waiting at 
my office to 
know if you have 
taken it ! '' 

The laugh and 
lie that he had 
at first tried to 
summon to 
mouth and lips 
never reached 
them. For, un- 
der the spell of 
her rigid, truth- 
ful face, he turn- 
ed almost me- 
chanically to his 
desk, and took 
out a package. 

11 Good God ! 
you've opened it 
already 1" she 
cried, pointing to 
the broken seal. 
The expres- 
sion on her face, 
more than any- 
thing she had 
said, convinced 
him that she 
knew all. He 
stammered un- 
der the new 
alarm that her 
despairing tone suggested. "Yesl — I was 
owing some bills— the collector was wait- 
ing here for the money, and I took some- 
thing from the packet. But I was going 
to make it up by next mail — I swear it," 
,fc How much have you taken ? " 




" Only a trifle. I- " 

" How much ? " 

" A hundred dollars ! " 

She dragged the money she had brought 
from Laurel Run from her pocket, and 
counting out the sum, replaced it in the 
open package. He ran quickly to get the 
sealing wax, but she motioned him away as 
she dropped the package back into the mail 
bag. " No ; an long as the money is found 
in the bag the package may have been 
broken accidentally. Now burst open one 
or two of those other packages a little — so ; " 
she took out a packet of letters and bruised 
their official wrappings under her little foot 
until the tape fastening was loosened. 
" Now give me something heavy." She 
caught up a brass two- pound weight, and 
in the same feverish but collected haste 
wrapped it in paper, sealed it, stamped it, 
and, addressing it in a farge printed hand 
to herself at Laurel Hill, dropped it in the 
bag. Then she closed it and locked it ; he 
would haveassisted her, but she again waved 
him away. " Send for the express-man, 
and keep yourself out of the way for a 
moment," she said curtly. 

An attitude of weak admiration and 
foolish passion had taken the place of his 
former tremulous fear. He obeyed excited- 
ly, but without a word, Mrs. Baker wiped 
her moist forehead and parched lips, and 
shook out her skirt. Well might the young 
express-man start at the unexpected revela- 
tion of those sparkling eyes and that de- 
murely smiling mouth at the little window. 

" Mrs. Baker ! " 

She put her finger quickly to her lips, 
and threw a world of unutterable and 
enigmatical meaning into her mischievous 

" There's a big San Francisco swell takin' 
my place at Laurel to-night, Charley," 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" And it's a pity that the Omnibus Way- 
bag happened to get such a shaking up and 
banging round already, coming here." 


" I say," continued Mrs. BakeT, with great 
gravity and dancing eyes, "that it would be 
just awful if that keerful City clerk found 
things kinder mixed up inside when he 
comes to open it. I wouldn't give him 
trouble for the world, Charley." 

"No, ma'am, it ain't like you." 

" So you'll be particularly careful on my 

''Mrs. Baker," said Charley, with infinite 
gravity, " if that bag should tumble off a 

dozen times between this and Laurel Hill, 
I'll hop down and pick it up myself." 

" Thank you ! shake ! " 

They i-hook hands gravely across the 
window ledge. 

" And you ain't goin 1 down with m, Mrs. 
Baker ? " 

'" Of course not ; it wouldn't do — for / 
ain't here — don't you see ? " 

" Of course ! '* 

She handed him the bag through the 
door. He took it carefully, but in spite of 
his great precaution fell over it twice on his 
way to the road, where from certain excla- 
mations and shouts it seemed that a like 

miserable mischance attended its elevation 
to the boot. Then Mrs. Baker came back 
into the office, and, as the wheels rolled away, 
threw herself into a chair, and inconsistently 
gave way for the first time to an outburst 
of tears. Then her hand was grasped 
suddenly, and she found Green on his knees 
before her. She started to her feet. 

" Don't move," he said, with weak hys 
teric passion, " but listen to me, for God's 
sake ! I am ruined. I know, even though 
Original from 




you have just saved me from detection and 
disgrace. I have been mad ! — a fool, to do 
what I have done, I know, bat you do not 
know all — you do not know why I did it — 
you cannot think of the temptation that 
has driven me to it. Listen, Mrs. Baker. 
I have been striving to get money, honestly, 
dishonestly — anyway, to look well in your 
eyes — to make myself worthy of you — to 
make myself rich, and to be able to offer 
you a home and take you away from 
Laurel Run. It was all for you — it was all 
for love of yott ) Betsy, my darling. Listen 
to me ! " 

In the fury, outraged sensibility, indigna- 
tion, and infinite disgust that filled her 
little body at that moment, she should 
have been large, imperious, goddess-like, 
and commanding. But God is at times 
ironical with suffering womanhood. She 
could only writhe her hand from his 
grasp with childish contortions ; she 
could only glare at him with eyes that 
were prettily and piquantly brilliant ; she 
could only slap at his detaining hand with 
a plump and velvety palm, and when she 
found her voice it was high falsetto. And 
all she could say was, " Leave me be, 
looney, or I'll scream ! " 

He rose, with a weak, confused 
laugh, half of miserable affectation 
and half of real anger and shame. 

" What did you come riding over 
here for, then ? What did you take 
all this risk for ? Why did you rush 
over here to share my disgrace — for 
you are as much mixed up with this 
now as /am — if you didn't calculate 
to, share everything eke with me ? 
What did you come here for, then, if 
not for me t " 

" What did /come here for ? " said 
Mrs. Baker, with every drop of Ted 
blood gone from her cheek and trem- 
bling lip. " What— did — I — come 
here for ? Well ! — I came here for 
Jnhn Baker's sake ! John Baker, 
who stood between you and death at 
Burnt Ridge, as I stand between you 
and damnation at Laurel Run, Mr. 
Green ! Yes, John Raker, lying 
under half of Burnt Ridge, but more 
to me this day than any living man 
crawling over ft— in — in'" — Oh, fatal 
climax ! — " in a month o' Sundays ! 
What did I come here for ? I came 
here as John Baker's livin' wife to 
carry on dead John Baker's work. 
Yes, dirty work this time, maybe, Mr. 

Green ! but his work, and for him only 
— precious ! That's what I came here 
for ; that's what I live for ; that's 
what I'm waiting for — to be up to him 
and his work always ! That's me — Betsy 
Baker ! " 

She walked up and down rapidly, tying 
her chip hat under her chin again. Then 
she stopped, and taking her chamois purse 
from her pocket, laid it sharply on the 

" Stanton Green, don't be a fool ! Rise 
up out of this, and be a man again. Take 
enough out o' that bag to pay what you 
owe Gov'ment, send in your resignation, 
and keep the rest to start you in a honest 
life elsewhere. But light out o* Hickory 
Hill afore this time to-morrow. 1 ' 

She pulled her mantle from (he wall and 
opened the door. 

" You are going ? *' he said, bitterly. 

" Yes." Either she could not hold 
seriousness long in her capricious little 
fancy, or, with feminine tact, she sought to 
make the parting less difficult for him, for 
she broke into a dazzling smile. " Yes, I'm 
goin' to run Blue Lightning agin Charley 

wl from 



and that Way -bag back to Laurel Run, and 
break the record." 

It is said that she did ! Perhaps owing 
to the fact that the grade of the return 
journey to Laurel Run was in her favour, 
and that she could avoid the long, cir- 
cuitous ascent to the summit taken by the 
stage, or that, owing to the extraordinary 
difficulties in the carriage of the way -bag 
— which had to be twice rescued from under 
the wheels of the stage — she entered the 
Laurel Run Post-office as the coach leaders 
came trotting up the hill. Mr. Home was 
already on the platform. 

" You'll have to ballast your next way- 
bag, boss," said Charley, gravely, as it 
escaped his clutches once mor*; in the dust 
of the road, " or you'll have to make a new 
contract with the company. We've lost 
ten minutes in five miles over that bucking 

Home did not reply, but quickly dragged 
his prize into the office, scarcely noticing 
Mrs. Baker, who stood beside hirn pale and 
breathless. As the bolt of the bag was 
drawn, revealing its chaotic interior, Mrs. 
Baker gave a little sigh. Home glanced 
quickly at her, emptied the bag upon the 
floor, and picked up the broken and half- 

filled money parcel. Then he collected the 
scattered coins and counted them. M It's 
all right, Mrs. Baker, 1 ' he said gravely. 
" ffe's safe this time ! " 

" I'm so glad ! " said little Mrs. Baker, 
with a hypocritical gasp. 

" So am I," returned Home, with increas- 
ing gravity, as he took the coin, M for, from 
all I have gathered this afternoon, it seems 
he was an old pioneer of Laurel Run, a 
friend of your husband's, and, I think, more 
fool than knave ! " He was silent for a 
moment, clicking the coins against each 
other ; then he said carelessly : " Did he 
get quite away, Mrs. Baker ? " 

"I'm sure I don't know what you're 
talking about," said Mrs. Baker, with a 
lofty air of dignity t but a somewhat debas- 
ing colour. " I don't see why / should 
know anything about it, or why he should 
go away at all.'' 

li Well," said Mr. Home, laying his hand 
gently on the widow's shoulder, " well, you 
see, it might have occurred to his friends 
that the coins were marked ' That is, no 
doubt, the reason why he would take their 
good advice and go. But, as I said before, 
Mrs. Baker, you're all right, whatever 
happens — the Government stands by 
you ! " 

*£ ;■ ■ 

Original from 

Young Tommy Atkins. 

A Personal Experience. 

rjULLO, Dapper, 1 ' said I, 
" what's up with you ? " 

" Same to you, Tommy, 
old boy. I'm down in the 
dumps, and am going to 
enlist. I hear good accounts 
of the army now, and they say that anyone 
who knows his drill, and is steady and well 
educated, is pretty sure of a commission. 
I've had a shindy at home, and I think a 
few years in the army would suit :ne down 
to the ground.' 1 

** Well, I'm reduced to my last shilling," 
said I. 

"And I to my last sixpence," said Dapper, 
''so let's go and get another shilling at 

I suggested a little 
more deliberation, 
and we sauntered 
into St. James's 
Park, sat down and 
discussed the situa- 
tion. And at last I 
agreed to enlist with 
Dick Dapper. 

We strolled 
leisurely through 
the Horse Guards 
and conned the 
bills headed t( re- 
cruits wanted," and 
we were not long 
oefore a smart re~ 
cruiting sergeant 
accosted us, and we 
walked with him to 
a public house called 
I think the "Blue 

Pig." The sergeant took us to a quiet 
corner in a big room where there were 
other sergeants, and eight or ten young 
fellows woe-begone, but none of them so 
completely down in the dumps as Dapper 
and me. 

"All found and a shilling a day," 
said the sergeant, smiling, "and the 
Government puts by £% a year for you, 
till, at the end of seven years, you have 
£i\ to receive for deferred pay.' At the 
end of seven years with the colours, you 
will be drafted into the Reserves, and re- 
ceive sixpence a day, and do twenty drills 

a year. Now, that"; all you want to know 
at present, so come with me to the barracks 
and see the doctor." 

We got there with several other recruits, 
most of whom were required to have a hot 
bath ; we were not, but we had to strip, 
and, in "our birthday suits," as Dapper 
described it, were ushered into the doctor's 

" This regiment must be the First 
Buffs," said Dick to the doctor. 

"Well, you're all in uniform, anyhow," 
said the doctor, laughing. 

We were thoroughly examined, and I 
fancied that the doctor was entering in a 
book any particulars he could see, like mole 
marks, tattooing, 
and so forth. Dick 
and I were both 
fairly developed for 
young men of eigh- 
teen, and passed the 
doctor all right. 
Dick's chest 
measured 35 inches, 
mine 36 ; the mini- 
mum accepted was 
33 inches. The 
minimum weight 
was 1 1 c lbs. — 8 
stone 3 lbs. — and we 
were both nearer 
9 stone. 

Our eyesight was 
tested by the 
hospital sergeant 
putting his hand 
' y. over our left eyes, 

and asking how 
many spots we could see on a board some 
paces off. Dick was a little doubtful when 
his left eye was covered, but the considerate 
sergeant opened the fingers, so that Dick 
could see with both eyes, and the doctor 
passed us as physically fit. Indeed, I 
heard that there wore no rejections that 
day, though two recruits at least were not 
up" to the standard of height, weight, or 
chest j but as they were promising lads 
who were likely to grow, they got their 

Having been duly attested before a 
magistrate, vrc nxe'vud, I think, is. 6d. 



each, and were drafted off to the depot of 
the Royal Wessex Regiment. 

I sold my watch and chain to Sergeant 
Snapcap, and Dkk disposed of a couple of 
pawn-tickets in the same way. 

" You won't want watches in the army," 1 
*aid Snapcap, " and if you do you can buy 
a cheap one, and 

!rou won't be so 
ikely to lose it," 
This put nearly 
six pounds into 
my purse, and 
Dick got a 
sovereign for his 
two tickets. 

At the barracks 
our first business 
was to dispose of 
our civilian 
clothes, about 
which there was 
no difficulty. 
Most of the re- 
cruits got rid of 
theirs to Jew 
dealers, but Ser- 
geant Trail, who 
took us in tow to 
show us over the 
place, hinted that 

Iil- could make more of anything that we 
had to sell than we could get out of the 
old do' man, so we both parted with our 
belongings to him, realising about three 
half-crowns each. 

We were then entered in the brigade 
book and received our regimental numbers 
We then received our kits, 
which consisted of fcarlet tunic, 
and navy blue trousers and a serge 
frock or jacket, a dark grey great- 
coat and cape, and short leather 
leggings ; two grey flannel shirts, 
three pairs of socks, and a Glen- 
garry cap ; two pairs of "Cossack" 
«r " ammunition " boots ; a set of 
blacking brushes, a clothes brush, 
and a tin of blacking. The small 
kit, as it was called, consisted of a 
knife, fork, spoon, razor, lather 
brush, hair brush and comb and button 
stick, and a hold-all to put them in, 

We then received from the paymaster- 
sergeant our "ration money," and were 
marched off to our room in barracks. We 
got into our regimentals, and were intro- 
duced to one of the regimental barbers, who 
gave us the real " Royal Wessex cut." He 
told us that beards were only worn by the 
pioneers. We could, of course, shave our- 
selves, I fancied I saw Dick busy with a 
bit of pencil and a small card making a 
sketch of me, and he seemed awfully 
amused. It certainly was a close crop, but 
I never saw hair better cut. 




Dick quite discon- 
certed the barber by 
saying ; " Look here, 
Snipper, don't cut me 
as close as you have 
my chum, for I've got 
a scar I don't want 

;< Oh, sir," said the 
barber, "soldiers' scars 
are honourable. Don't 
hide one if you 
have it." 

" But I didn't get 
it in a war/' said 

" Who's to know- 
that ? " said the bar- 
ber. " Ah, I see it. 
Lots of our men would 
give a penny a day for 
a scar like that j it's a beauty." 

Dick Dapper roared with laughter, and 
caused the barber to stick the point of his 
scissors in his head. 

11 Hold hard ! " said Dick. " I don't want 
you to make any more scars ; one's plenty 
for me." 

Dick said he did not want any of the 
patent pomatum recommended by the bar- 
ber, but was told that he could not wear 
his cap properly without it, and the " love 
lock " must be greased. 


We were glad to get to bed, and de- 
lighted to find that, after the lights were 
out, there was none of the larking and 
ta'12-telling that Dapper and I were looking 
forward to. One man began singing a 
loose song, but the sergeant shut him up 
sharp with a threat of the guard-room. 

The bugles woke us up at five, and we 
turned out sharp. It was a glorious morn- 
ing, and we followed the example of our 
comrades by putting on " fatigue " dress. 
We packed up our beds like the rest, and 
each one swept beneath 
and around his bed into 
the middle gangway of 
the room, and the orderly 
finished the sweeping. 
At a quarter to six we 
paraded for the " morning 
roll call," which took 

Original from 

-4 2 


about a quarter of 
an hour, and from 
b o'clock to a quar- 
ter to 8 we were 
furbishing up our 
uniforms, and par- 
ing the potatoes 
for the mess, the 
allowance being a 
pound for each 
man. We found 
this work rather 
irksome, and would 
have shirked it. 
Dapper wanted to 
know why they 
could not be 
cooked with their 
jackets on. Our 
sergeant was most 
sympathetic, and 
generally called 
one or both of us 
off to send us on 
some errand like 
fetching the let- 
ters, which was 

more to our tastes, and Dick was able now 
and then to add to his miniature sketch 
book — he was very clever with his pencil. 

We had breakfast at a quarter to 8. The 
orderlies went to the kitchen and fetched 

The orderly 
afterwards put the 
meat into a twine 
net, if for boiling, 
and if for roasting, 
into a baking tin. 
The cook put a 
number on the 
joint, which varied 
in weight accord- 
ing to the number 
of men in the mess 
to which it be- 

We paraded in 
drill order at a 
quarter to nine, 
and had an hour's 
drill under the 
sergeant major, a 
good-tempered but 
blustering Irish- 
man. It was his 
privilege to pick 
out the men for 
promotion, and 
both Dick and I 
did our best to gain his good opinion. 
We found our volunteering experience a 
wonderful help, and we were not long 
before we were promised promotion. 

The commanding officer's parade was 


the coffee in pails. They also drew the 
day's rations, consisting of lib. of bread, 
three-quarters of a pound of boneless meat, 
and potatoes for each. 

from 11 till 12, and all fell in in full dress 
and the bands attended. 

At 12.45 the dinner bugle sounded, which 
seemed to* be better understood than many 




of the other "calls. 15 There was very- 
little variation in the daily menu, unless 
the " grocery book " showed a balance in 
hand of the paymaster-sergeant, which 
sometimes permitted of the addition of 
soup, which was brought in iti pail* like 
the coffee. We occasionally got pudding 
and "greens "' in a similar way. No beer 
was allowed in the barrack -room, and as 
soon as the food was finished, there was 
a stampede to the canteen, where a pint 
of good beer could be had for three 

halfpence- I ought to 
add that there were two 
canteens— the H wet " one 
and the "dry." The dry 
canteen supplied gro- 
ceries, pickles, jams, 
fauces, and so forth, and 
was always open ; the 
wet one was only open 
from 12 till 2, and from 
6 till 9.30. Draper de- 
clared he could not 
understand the distinc- 
tion, for he always went 
to ihe wet canteen when 
he was dry. 

During the dinner- 
time an officer looked 
into each room, and in- 
quired if there were any complaints. I 
never heard any made, though some dis- 
contented grizzlers were always threatening 
what they would say when they got a 
chance. But they had no encouragement 
from any of us, and were systematically 
" sat on '' or cold-shouldered. 

The sergeant-major had another parade 
from 2 till 3. After that time till 5 we 
were free to do what we liked in barracks, 
but some who wanted setting up had to go 
to the gymnasium, and others who had not 
reached a certain standard of education 
were required to attend school. Teachers, 
to assist the schoolmaster, were paid4d, per 
day extra duty- pay, and Dick and I each 
took a turn at teaching. 

'bmi^tbou™,, Original f 




We were soon qualified fur sentry duty, 
and at first found it pleasant enough, espe- 
cially when we were supplied with fruit and 
a smile " over the garden wall." " Sentry 
go " meant 
two hours on 
duty and 
four off for 
c o n s e c u tive 

Tea was 
served at a 
quarter to 
four, and con- 
sisted of tea - 
and bread 
and butter, 
with lj snacks"' 
for those who 
could afford 
to buy them. 

From 5 till 
6 the ser- 
had another 

parade, and we were dismissed till q.30, 
when " First Post " sounded, " Second 
Post " at JO, and ''Lights out" at a quarter 
past 10. 

This was the general daily routine, but 
on certain days it was varied. I was much 
struck with "the appearance of the rooms 
when the officers made the " kit inspec- 
tion " on Saturdays. Then every article of 
Government property comprised in the 
soldiers kit had to be neatly arranged on 
his bedstead so that their condition could 
be readily seen, and the 
soldier stood at attention at 
the bedside ready to answer 
any question. One day Dick 
at kit inspection got into 

momentary trouble. " No blacking tin 
here," said the officer, pointing to Dick's 
kit, but he took no further notice. The 
sergeant, however, gave Dick a rare 

wigging, and wanted to know where it was. 
Dick had mixed the blacking with water in 
a jam jar, and was only waiting till he could 
get a bru-m, when he purposed ornament- 
ing the barrack room with some startling 
design of his own. 

We looked forward eagerly to the time 
when we should be able to get to the butts 
and have some shooting. The ordinary 
recruit had to go through a careful training 
before he was allowed to shoot, but Dick 
and I soon showed our proficiency in 
musketry, and were glad 
enough to be told after one 
lesson in aiming drill that we 
could begin class-firing at once. 
Dick was delighted, and in a 
merry mood made for the 
laundry, as he said he had a 
grievance in that quarter, I 
give his version of what 
happened : — 

" Serve me right,*' said he, 
"I deserved all I got. I pushed 
the washhouse door open, and 
chucking one of the women 
under the chin, I said, ' Look 
here, Lady Soapsuds, don't you 
scrub the buttons off my shirt 
like you did last week. For 
which I got a spank on the 
face with a wet shirt, and a jug 
ot water trcm a negress, and a 






tub of suds from another woman. ' Let's 
show Mr. Cheeky our new wringing 
machine,' said one. ' Do, do,' they shouted, 
and I was soon surrounded by a dozen or 
more nymphs of the tub, one of whom 
dropped down behind me, and another 
pushed me backward over her ; and amid 
shouts of laughter, they took me, head and 
heels, like a sheet ready for wringing, and 
gave me a twist, head one way and heels 
the other, and then dropped me. 'Now 
rinse him,' they shouted, and I was nearly 
drowned. One of them then dabbed my 
cheeks with the blue bag, and suggested 
that the sheet should be hung out to dry, 
but I managed to get to the door, and took 
to my heels," These laundresses aTe 
generally the wives of the married soldiers, 
and each man contributes a halfpenny per 
day to the laundry fund, and there is no 
limit to the clothes he likes to send to be 

Trades were not taught in our regiment, 
but there was a tailor's shop, a boot shop, 
and a carpenter's shop, in which soldiers 
who were qualified and were inclined that 
way, could earn extra pay. It was only re 
pairing and altering that was done in these 

The evenings were very enjoyable. In 
the summer we had cricket, and for those 
who thought this too hard work or not to 
their taste, there was a skittle alley attached 
to the canteen. 

Some went into the town, and often 
got into trouble through stopping too 
long and drinking too much at " 't'he 
Swiggers' Arms." There was an awful 

shindy there one night, 
which ended in a free 
fight between the 
M Dare Devil Dicks " 
and the u Bangshire 
Bucks," in which belts 
and fists were freely 
used, and we had to 
send out an extra 
strong picket and the 
ambulance to bring 
home out wounded. 
The guard-room was 
full to overflowing, and 
some of the more ob- 
streperous had to be 
put into the cells, Dick, 
I am sorry to say, 
amongst the rest. He 
heard a call for " Dare 
Devil Dicks," and 
joined in the scrimmage when he saw 
some of our men being badly mauled, and 
he let out right and left, to the astonish- 
ment of the " Bangshire Bucks." 

Some of our men had been so badly 
hurt that they were sent into hospital. 

I found that all sick soldiers were attended 
to with the greatest care. Anyone who 
wanted advice reported himself at nine 
o'clock in the morning, but urgent cases 
were sent to the hospital at once. The best 
of advice, medicine, and nursing were avail- 
able, and the convalescents had a pretty 



2 V , 


garden in which they could enjoy the fresh 
air and sunshine, 

The prospect of promotion or the right to 
wear a good conduct badge was a great 
incentive to the 
recruits, and 
there was 
always gTeat 
exci tern ent 
when a new 
batch t of pro- 
motions was 
issued. Dick 
and I were 
much amused 
one morning 
when we hap- 
pened to peep 
into one of the 
huts and saw a 
soldier trying to 
get a glimpse 
of himself in a 
small piece of ski 

broken looking- 
glass. He had just got his good-conduct 
badge, but, in the excitement of the 
moment, had pinned it on point down- 
wards. This badge carries with it an 
extra penny a day. When a lance-corporal 
gets his stripe he gets an increase of 3d, per 
day 1 when he gets his second chevron his 
pay is is. 8d. per day ; and the third, or 
sergeant's stripes, carries 2s. 4d. per day. 
Colour-sergeants get 3s., and staff-sergeants 
from 3s. 6d. to 5s. per day, 

We were only in the ranks a few weeks 
before we got to be full corporals, and so 
got off the fatigue 
duty ; but our 
last bit of fatigue 
work was amus- 
ing. We were 
both on fatigue 
duty, and the 
regiment had 
gone off early to 
take part in a 
field day some 
distance off ; and 
Dick and I were 
left behind, and, 
amongst other 
things, had to 
whitewash the 
room. It was a 
fine summer day, 
and the work was 

soon done, with the only discomfort of 
aching wrists and a plentiful sprinkling of 
whitewash over ourselves. When it was 
dry, Dick said ; " Now for a little adorn- 
ment. I'm go- 
ing to put this 
sketch life-size 
over the man- 
tel, and give the 
dado a frill ''; 
and he showed 
me a little 
sketch of the 
canteen, with 
himself at the 
piano — he could 
^ play a break - 
'™ down, or vamp 
an accompani- 
ment fairly well 
— and one of the 
men was danc- 
ing a jig. 

" There will 
11- be a shindy," 

said I. 
" Never mind," said Dick, " they can but 
make us wash it over." 

He fetched his jam-pot with the blacking 
in ready mixed, and, producing two brushes, 
he set to work, while I did the dado edging. 
I was not very successful, so Dick said, 
u You rough it out and leave the finishing 
to me.' 1 

It was tea-time before we heard the 

regimental band playing " When Johnny 

comes marching home again," but we had 

finished our work and cleared all away. 

The men roared with delight when they 

1 sketch of TiSri&Tfrrahfrom 



saw the picture and recognised the portraits, 
and their shouts of laughter brought in the 

He stood petrified for a moment, and then 
burst out, il Divil fly away wid me, and 
who's been damaging the barrack walls like 
that ? Fetch the whitewash and clear it 
out before the colonel and his ladies come." 

But the sergeant was too late, for the 
colonel and his visitors at that moment 
entered the room, and the sergeant called 
out u Tendon." 

" That's capital," said one of the ladies, 
going straight to the fireplace to get a close 
view of the sketch. " Now that's what I've 
always been advocating — making the bar- 
rack-rooms as bright and cheerful as pos- 
sible," All the visitors admired the picture, 
and the colonel's wife thought the orna- 
mental dado a decided improvement. 

The colonel said he supposed that it was 
Dapper's doing, but who gave permission to 
do it ? Dick came forward rather sheep- 
ishly, and said he thought it would do for 
the Christmas decorations. " Long time to 
Christmas," said the colonel, " but let it stay 
till then. You must not do things— even 
good things — in the army without per- 
mission, 1 ' 

Dick touched up and improved his 
picture from time to time, and every visitor 

to the barracks was taken to see it. The 
frilled dado, however, did not go down with 
the authorities, and Dick and I had to paint 
it out and make it match the other rooms. 

Sunday was always a delightful day, for 
after church parade we were comparatively 

It struck me that some better plan might 
be adopted for soldiers seeing friends who 
call at the barracks. Instead of getting 
leave to go out, and then adjourning with 
their friends to the nearest publichouse, 
there should be a spacious waiting-room 
near the entrance gates. 

There was great excitement when it 
became known that the Royal Wessex 
Regiment was ordered off for service abroad 
at very short notice, and word was passed 
round that every man should make his will 
and declare his proper name before leaving 

Dick and I were in great demand as will- 
makers, but most of the men copied out 
one of the simple forms set out in the little 
pocket-book which is given to every recruit, 
and sent it off to some relative with a good- 
bye letter. 

The news that our regiment was going 
abroad woke up the friends of some of the 
men, who were bought off at, I think, ^"18 
each, but Dick and I go with the regiment. 


Original from 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 

By A. Conan Doyle. 

gjY dear fellow/' said Sherlock 
Holmes, as we sat on either 
side of the fire in his lodg- 
ings at Baker-street, "life 
is infinitely stranger than 
anything which the mind 
of man could invent. We would not dare 
to conceive the things which are really 
mere commonplaces of existence. If we 
could fly out of that window hand in hand, 
hover over this great city, gently remove 
the roofs, and peep in at the queer things 
which are going on, the strange coinci- 
dences, the planning*, the cross -pur poses, the 
wonderful chains of events, working through 
generations, and leading to the most autre 
results, it would make all fiction with its 
conventionalities and foreseen conclusions 
most stale and unprofitable." 

"And yet I am not convinced of it," 
I answered. " The cases which come to 
light in the papers are, as a rule, bald 
enough, and vulgar enough, We have in 
our police reports realism pushed to its 
extreme limits, and yet the result is, it 
must be confessed, neither fascinating nor 

" A certain selection and discretion must 
be used in producing a realistic effect, 11 
remarked Holmes. " This is wanting in 
the police report, where more stress is laid 
perhaps upon the platitudes of the magis- 
trate than upon the details, which to an 
observer contain the vital essence of the 
whole matter. Depend upon it there is 
nothing so Unnatural as the commonplace." 

I smiled and shook my head. " I can 
quite understand you thinking so," I said. 
"Of course, in your position of unofficial 
adviser and helper to everybody who is 
absolutely puzzled, throughout three con- 
tinents, you are brought in contact with all 
that is strange and bizarre. But here "■ — I 
picked up the morning paper from the 
ground — - ll let us put it to a practical test. 
Here is the first heading upon which I 
come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife,' 
There is half a column of print, but I know 
without reading it that it is all perfectly 
familiar to me. There is, of course, the 
other woman, the drink, the push, the 
blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or 

landlady. The crudest of writers could 
invent nothing more crude." 

bi Indeed, your example is an unfortunate 
one for your argument, 11 said Holmes, tak- 
ing the paper, and glancing his eye down it. 
"This is the Dundas separation case, and, 
as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up 
some small points in connection with it. 
The husband was a teetotaler, there was no 
other woman, and the conduct complained 
of was that he had drifted into the habit of 
winding up every meal by taking out his 
false teeth and hurling them at his wife, 
which you will allow is not an action likely 
to occur to the imagination of the average 
story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, doctor, 
and acknowledge that I have scored over 
you in your example." 

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, 
with a great amethyst in the centre of the 
lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to 
his homely ways and simple life that I could 
not help commenting upon it. 

" Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not 
seen you for some weeks. It is a little 
souvenir from the King of Bohemia in 
return for my assistance in the case of the 
Irene Adler papers." 

" And the ring ? " I asked, glancing at a 
remarkable brilliant which sparked upon 
his finger. 

" It was from the reigning family of 
Holland, though the matter in which I 
served them was of such delicacy that I 
cannot confide it even to you, who have 
been good enough to chronicle one or two 
of my little problems." 

" And have you any on hand just now ? " 
I asked with interest. 

" Some ten or twelve, but none which 
present any feature of interest. They are 
important, you understand, without being 
interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is 
usually in unimportant matters that there 
is a field for the observation, and for the 
quick analysis of cause and effect which 
gives the charm to an investigation. The 
larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for 
the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as 
a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save 
for one rather intricate matter which has 
been referred to me from Marseilles, there 
Original from 


2 A q 

is nothing which presents any features of 
interest. It is possible, however, that I 
may have something better before very 
many minutes, are over, for this is one of 
my clients, or I am much mistaken." 

He had risen from his chair, and was 
standing between the parted blinds, gazing 
down into the dull, neutral-tinted London 
street. Looking over his shoulder I saw 
that on the pavement opposite there stood 
a large woman with a heavy fur boa round 
her neck, and a large curling red feather 
in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted 
in a coquettish Duchess-of-Devonshire fash- 
ion over her ear. From under this great 
panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitat- 
ing fashion at our windows, while her body 
oscillated backwards and forwards, and her 
fingers fidgetted with her glove buttons. 
Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer 
who leaves the bank, she hurried across the 
road, and we heard the sharp clang of the 

"1 have seen those symptoms before," 
said Holmes, throwing 
his cigarette into the 
fire. " Oscillation upon 
the pavement always 
means an affair* de 
caur. She would like 
advice, but is not sure 
that the matter is not 
too delicate for com- 
munication. And yet 
even here we may 
discriminate. When 
a woman has been 
seriously wronged by 
a man she no longer 
oscillates, and the 
usual symptom is a 
broken bell wire. Here 
we may take it that 
there is a love matter, 
but that the maiden 
is not so much angry as 
perplexed, or grieved. 
But here she comes in 
person to resolve our 

As he spoke there 
was a tap at the door, 
and the boy in buttons 
entered to announce 
Miss Mary Sutherland, 
while the lady herself 
loomed behind his 
small black figure like >f 

a full-sailed merchant- 

man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock 
Holmes welcomed her with the easy 
courtesy for which he was remarkable, and 
" having closed the door, and bowed her into 
an armchair, he looked her over in the 
minute, and yet abstracted fashion which 
was peculiar to him. 

M Do you not find," he satd, " that with 
your short sight it is a little trying to do so 
much typewriting? " 

" I did at first," she answered, " but now 
I know where the letters arc without look- 
ing." Then, suddenly realising the full 
purport of his words, she gave a violent 
start, and looked up with fear and astonish- 
ment upon her broad, good-humoured face. 
" You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," 
she cried, " else how could you know all 
that ? " 

" Never mind/' said Holmes, laughing, 
"It is my business to know things. Per- 
haps I have trained myself to see what 
others overlook. If no% why should you 
come to consult mc ? " 


2 SO 


" I came to you, sir, because I heard of 
you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you 
found so easy when the police and everyone 
had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. 
Holmes, I wish you would do as much for 
me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hun- 
dred a year in my own right, besides the 
little that I make by the machine, and I 
would give it all to know what has become 
of Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

"Why did you come away to consult me 
in such a hurry ? " asked Sherlock Holmes, 
with his finger tips together, and his eyes to 
the ceiling. 

Again a startled look came over the 
somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary 
Sutherland. " Yes, I did bang out of the 
house," she said, " for it made me angry to 
see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank 
— that is, my father — took it all. I T e would 
not go to the police, and he would not go 
to you, and so at last, as he would do no- 
thing, and kept on saying that there was 
no harm done, it made me mad, and I just 
on with my things and came right away to 

" Your father," said Holmes, " your step- 
father, surely, since the name is different." 

" Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, 
though it sounds funny, too, for he is only 
five years and two months older than my- 

" And your mother is alive ? " 

" Oh yes, mother is alive and well. I 
wasn't best pleased) Mr. Holmes, when she 
married again so soon after father's death, 
and a man who was nearly fifteen years 
younger than herself. Father was a plumber 
in the Tottenham Court-road, and he left a 
tidy business behind him, which mother 
carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman, 
but when Mr. Wfndibank came he made 
her sell the business, for he was very 
superior, being a traveller in wines. They 
got four thousand seven hundred for the 
goodwill and interest, which wasn't near 
as much as father could have got if he had 
been alive." 

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes 
impatient under this rambling and inconse- 
quential narrative, but, on the contrary, he 
had listened with the greatest concentration 
of attention. 

" Your own little income," he asked, 
" does it come out of the business ? " 

"Oh no, sir. It is quite separate, and 
was left me by my Uncle Ned in Auckland. 
It is in New Zealand Stock, paying 4$ per 
cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds 

was the amount, but I can only touch the 

^'You interest me extremely," said 
Holmes. " And since you draw so large a 
sum as a hundred a year, with what you 
earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a 
little, and indulge yourself in every way. I 
believe that a single lady can get on very 
nicely upon an income of about sixty 

" I could do with much less than that, 
Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as 
long as I live at home I don't wish to be a 
burden to them, and so they have the use 
of the money just while I am staying with 
them. Of course that is only just for the 
time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest 
every quarter, and pays it over to mother, 
and I find that I can do pretty well 
with what I earn at typewriting. It 
brings me twopence a sheet, and I can 
often do from fifteen to twenty*- sheets in 
a day." 

" You have made your position very 
clear to me," said Holmes. " This is my 
friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can 
speak as freely as before myself. Kindly 
tell us now all about your connection with 
Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, 
and she picked nervously at the fringe of 
her jacket. " I met him first a,t the gas- 
fitters' ball," she said. " They used to send 
father tickets when he was alive, and then 
afterwards they remembered us, and sent 
them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not 
wish us to go. He never did wish us to go 
anywhere. He would get quite mad if I 
wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school 
treat. But this time I was set on going, 
and I would go, for what right had he to 
prevent ? He said the folk were not fit for 
us to know, when all father's friends were 
to be there. And he said that I had nothing 
fit to wear, when I had my purple plush 
that I had never so much as taken out of 
the drawer. At last when nothing else 
would do he went off to France upon the 
business of the firm, but we went, mother 
and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our 
foreman, and it was there I met Mr. 
Hosmer Angel." 

" I suppose," said Holmes, "that when 
Mr. Windibank came back from France, he 
was very annoyed at your having gone to 
the ball." 

" Oh, well, he was very good about it. 
He laughed, I remember, and shrugged hi: 
shoulders, and said there was no use deny- 


ing anything to a woman, for she would 
hare her way." 

u I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you 
met, as I understand, a gentleman called 
Mr. Hosmer Angel. 1 * 

" Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he 

called next day to ask if we had got home 
all safe, and after that we met him — that is 
to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for 
walks, but after that father came back 
again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not 
come to the house any more." 


" Well, you know, father didn't like any- 
thing of the sort He wouldn't have any 
visitors if he could help it, and he used to 
say that a woman should be happy in her 
own family circle. But then, as I used to 
say to mother, a woman wants her own 
circle to begin with, and I had not got mine 

u But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel ? 
Did he make no attempt to see you ? " 

" Well, father was going off to France 
again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and 

said that it would be safer and better not to 
see each other until he had gone. We 
could write in the meantime, and he used 
to write every day. I took the letters in in 
the morning, so there was no need foi 
father to know." 

" Were you engaged to the gentleman at 
this time ? " 

H Oh yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged 
after the first walk that we took. Hosmer 
— Mr. Angel — was a cashier in an office in 
Leadenhall-street — and — " 

" What office ? " 

" That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, T 
don't know. 1 ' 

" Where did he live, then ? " 

il He slept on the premises." 

" And you don't know his address ? " 
, " No— except that it was Leadenhall- 

u Where did you address your letters, 
then ? " 

" To the Leadenh all -street Post Office, to 
be left till called for. He said that if they 
were sent to the office he would be chaffed 
by all the other clerks about having letters 
from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, 
like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, 
for he said that when I wrote them they 
teemed to come from me, but when they 
were typewritten he always felt that the 
machine had ccme between us. That will 
just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. 
Holmes, and the little things that he would 
think of." 

" It was most suggestive," *aid Holme?, 
" h has long been an axiom of mine that 
the little things are infinitely the most im- 
portant. Can you remember any other 
little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel ? " 

'■He was a very shy man, Mr, Holmes. 
He would rather walk with me in the even- 
ing than in the daylight, for he said that 
he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring 
and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice 
was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and 
swollen glands when he was young, he told 
me, and it had left him with a weak throat, 
and a hesitating, whispering fashion or 
speech. He was always well-dressed, very 
neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, 
just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses 
against the glare." 

" Well, and what happened when Mr. 
Windibank, your stepfather, returned to 
France ? " 

" Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house 
again, and proposed that we should marry 
before father carrie back. He was in dread- 



ful earnest, and made me swear, with my 
hands on the Testament, that whatever hap- 

Kened I would always be true to him. 
father said he was quite right to make me 
swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. 
Mother was all in his favour from the first, 
and was even fonder of him than I was. 
Then, when they talked of marrying 
within the week, I began to ask about 
father ; but they both said never to mind 
about father, but just to tell him afterwards, 
and mother said she would make it all right 
with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr, 
Holmes. It seemed funny that I should 
ask his leave, as he was only a few years 
older than me ; but I didn't want to do 
anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at 
Bordeaux, where the Company has its 
French offices, but the letter came back to 
me on the very morning of the wedding." 
" It missed him, then ? " 
" Yes, sir, for he had started to England 
just before it arrived." 

put us both into it, and stepped himself 
into a four-wheeler, which happened to be 
the only other cab in the street. We got 
to the church first, and when the four- 
wheeler drove up we waited for him to 
step out, but he never did, and when the 
cabman got down from the box and looked, 
there was no one there ! The cabman said 
that he could not imagine what had become 
of him, for he had seen him get in 
with his own eyes. That was last Friday, 
Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard 
anything since then to throw any light 
upon what became of him." 

" It seems to roe that you have been very 
shamefully treated," said Holmes. 

" Oh no, sir ! He was too good and kind 
to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was 
saying to me that, whatever happened, I 
was to be true ; and that even if something 
quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I 
was always to remember that I was pledged 
to him, and that he would claim his pledge 

" Ha ! that was unfortunate. Your 
wedding was arranged, then, for the 
Friday. Was it to be in church ? " 

" Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to 
be at St. Saviour's, hear KingVcross, and 
we were to have breakfast afterwards at the 
St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in 
a hansom, but as there were two of us, he 

sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for 
a wedding morning, but what has hap- 
pened since gives a meaning to it. 1 ' 

11 Most certainly it does. Your own 
opinion is, then, that some unforeseen 
catastrophe has occurred to him ? " 

11 Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw 
some danger, or else he would not have 



2? 3 

talked so. And then I think that what he 
foresaw happened." 

" But you have no notion as to what it 
could have been ? w 

" None." 

" One more question. How did your 
mother take the matter ? " 

" She was angry, and said that I was 
never to speak of the matter again." 

H And your father ? Did you tell him ? " 

11 Yes, and he 
seemed to think, 
with me, that 
something had 
happened, and that 
I should hear of 
Hosmer again. As 
he said, what in- 
terest could anyone 
have in bringing me 
to the doors of the 
church, and then 
leaving me ? Now, 
if he had borrowed 
my money, or if he 
had married me and 
got my money 
settled on him, 
there might be 
some reason ; but 
Hosmer was very 
independent about 
money, and never 
would look at a 
shilling of mine. 
And yet what could 
have happened? 
And why could he 
not write ? Oh, it 
drives me half mad 
to think of ! and I 
can't sleep a wink at 
night." She pulled 
a little handkerchief 
out of her muff, and 
began to sob heavily into it. 

" I shall glance into the case for you," 
said Holmes, rising, " and I have no doubt 
that we shall reach some definite result. 
Let the weight of the matter rest upon me 
now, and do not let your mind dwell upon 
it further. Above all, try to let Mr. 
Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, 
as he has done from your life." 

" Then you don't think I'll sec him 
again ? " 

" I fear not." 

" Then what has happened to him ? " 

" You will leave that question in ray 

hands. I should like an accurate descrip- 
tion of him, and any letters of his which 
you can spare," 

Ll I advertised for him in last Saturday's 
Chronicle" said she. M Here is the slip, 
and here are four letters from him." 
" Thank you. And your address ? " 
" 31, Lyon -place, Camber well." 
" Mr. Angel's address you never had, I 
understand. Where is your father's place 
of business ? " 

H He travels for 
Westhouse & Mar- 
bank, the great 
claret importers of 
Fenchurch -street." 

"Thank you. You 
have made your 
statement very 
clearly. You will 
leave the papers 
here, and remember 
the advice which I 
have given you. Let 
the whole incident 
be a sealed book, 
and do not allow it 
to affect your life." 

" You are very 
kind, Mr. Holmes, 
but 1 cannot do that. 
1 shall be true to 
Hosmer. He shall 
find me ready when 
he comes back," 

For all the pre- 
posterous hat and 
the vacuous face, 
there was something 
noble in the simple 
faith of our visitor 
which compelled 
our respect. She 
laid her little bundle 
of papers upon the 
table, and went her way, with a promise 
to come again whenever she might be 

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few 
minutes with hia finger tips still pressed 
together, his legs stretched out in front of 
him, and his gaze directed upwards to the 
ceiling. Then he took down from the rack 
the old and oilvclav pipe, which was to him 
as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned 
back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud- 
wreaths spinning up from him, and a look 
of infinite languor in his face. 

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," 



he observed. " I found her more interest- 
ing than her little problem, which, by the 
way, is rather a trite one. You will find 
parallel cases, if you consult my index, in 
Andover in '77, and there was something 
of the sort at the Hague last year. Old as 
is the idea, however, there were one or two 
details which were new to me. But the 
maiden herself was most instructive." 

" You appeared to read a good deal upon 
her which "was quite invisible to me," I 

"Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. 
You did not know where to look, and so 
you missed all that was important. I can 
never bring you to realise the importance 
of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb- 
nails, or the great issues that may hang 
from a bootlace. Now what did yo« 
gather from that woman's appearance ? 
Describe it." 

" Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad- 
brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a 
brickish red. Her jacket was black, with 
black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of 
little black jet ornaments. Her dress was 
brown, rather darker than coffee colour, 
with a little purple plush at the neck and 
sleeves. Her gloves were greyish, and 
were worn through at the right forefinger. 
Her boots I didn't observe. She had small 
round, hanging gold earrings, and a general 
air of being fairly well to do, in a vulgar, 
comfortable, easy-going way." 

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands 
softly together and chuckled. 

" Pon my word, Watson, you are coming 
along wonderfully. You have really done 
very well indeed. It is true that you have 
missed everything of importance, but you 
have hit upon the method, and you have a 
quick eye for colour. Never trust to 
general impressions, my boy, but concen- 
trate yourself upon details. My first glance 
is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it 
is perhaps better first to take the knee of 
the trouser. As you observe, this woman 
had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most 
useful material for showing traces. The 
double line a little above the wrist, where 
the typewritist presses against the table, 
was beautifully defined. The sewing- 
machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar 
mark, but only on the left arm, and on the 
side of it farthest from the thumb, instead 
of being right across the broadest part, as 
this was. I then glanced at her face, and 
observing the dint of a pince-nez at either 
side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon 

short sight and typewriting, which seemed 
to surprise her. 

"It surprised me." 

" But, surely, it was very obvious. I 
was then much surprised and interested on 
glancing down to observe that, though the 
boots which she was wearing were not un- 
like each other, they were really odd ones, 
the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, 
and the other a plain one. One was but- 
toned only in the two lower buttons out of 
five, and the other at the first, third, and 
fifth. Now, when you see that a young 
lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come 
away from home with odd boots, half-but- 
toned, it is no great deduction to say that 
she came away in a hurry." 

" And what else ? " I asked, keenly in- 
terested, as I always was, by my friend's 
incisive reasoning. 

" I noted, in passing, that she had written 
a note before leaving home, but after being 
fully dressed. You observed that her right 
glove was torn at the forefinger, but ypu 
did not apparently see that both glove and 
finger were stained with violet ink. She 
had written in a hurry, and dipped her pen 
too deep. It must have been this morning, 
or the mark would not remain clear upon 
the finger. All this Is amusing, though 
rather elementary, but I must go back to 
business, Watson. Would you mind read- 
ing me the advertised description of Mr. 
Hosmer Angel ? " 

I held the little printed slip to the light. 
" Missing," it said, " on the morning of the 
14th, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. 
About 5 ft. 7 in. in height ; strongly built, 
sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in 
the centre, bushy, black side whiskers and 
moustache ; tinted glasses, slight infirmity 
of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, 
in black frock coat faced with silk, black 
waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey 
Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters 
over elastic-sided boots. Known to have 
been employed in an office in Leadenhali- 
street. Anybody bringing," &c.,&c. 

" That wdl do," said Holmes. " As to 
the letters," he continued, glancing over 
them, " they are very commonplace. Ab- 
solutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save 
that he quotes Balzac once. There is one 
remarkable point, however, which will no 
doubt strike you." 

" They are typewritten," I remarked. 

" Not only that, but the signature is type- 
written. Look at the neat little ' Hosmer 
Angel ' at tha bottom, There is a date, you 



* 55 

see, but no superscription except Leaden- 
hall-street, which is rather vague. The 
point about the signature is very suggestive 
— in fact, we may call it conclusive." 

" Of what ? " 

" My dear fellow, is it possible you do not 
see how strongly it 
bears upon the case." 

" I cannot say that I 
do, unless it were that 
he wished to be able 
to deny his signature 
if an action for breach 
of promise were in- 

" No, that was not 
the point. However, 
I shall write two letters 
which should settle the 
matter. One is to a 
firm in the City, the 
other is to the young 
lady's stepfather, Mr. 
Windibank, asking 
him whether he could 
meet us here at six 
o'clock to-morrow 
evening. It is just as 
well that we should do 
business with the male 
relatives, And now, 
doctor, we can do 
nothing until the 
answers to those letters 
come, so we may put 
our little problem upon 
the shelf for the in- 
terim. 1 ' "i 

I had had so many 
reasons to believe in my friend's subtle 
powers of reasoning, and extraordinary 
energv in action, that I felt that he must 
have some solid grounds for the assured 
and easy demeanour with which he treated 
the singular mystery which he had been 
called upon to fathom. Once only had 
J known him to fail, in the case of the 
King of Bohemia and of the Irene 
Adler photogTaph, but when I looked back 
to the weird business of the Sign of Four, 
and the extraordinary circumstances con- 
nected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that 
it would be a strange tangle indeed which 
he could not unravel. 

I left him then, still puffing at his black 
clay pipe, with the conviction that when I 
came again on the next evening I would 
find that he held in his hands all the clues 
which would lead up to the identity of 

the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary 

A professional case of great gravity was 
engaging my own attention at the time, 
and the whole of next day I was busy at the 
bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close 
upon six o'clock 
that I found my- 
self free, and was 
able to spring 
into a hansom 

and drive to Baker-street, half afraid that 
I might be too late to assist at the 
dhmuemint of the little mystery. I found 
Sherlock Holmes alone, however, hah 
asleep, with his long, thin form curled 
up in the recesses of his armchair. A 
formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, 
with the pungent cleanly smell of hydro- 
chloric acid, told me that he had spent his 
day in the chemical work which was so 
dear to him. 

" Well, have you solved it ? " I asked as 
I entered. 

" Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta." 

" No, no, the mystery ! ' I cried. 

" Oh, that ! I thought of the salt that I 
have been working upon. There was never 
any mystery in the matter, though, as I 
said yesterday, some of the details are 01 
interest. The only drawback is that there 




is no law, I fear, that can touch the 

" Who was he, then, and what was his 
object in deserting Miss Sutherland ? " 

The question was hardly out of my 
mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened 
his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy 
footfall in the passage, and a tap at the 

" This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James 
Windibank," said Holmes. "He has written 
to me to say that he would be here at six. 
Come in ! " 

The man who entered was a sturdy 
middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of 
age, clean shaven, and sallow skinned, with 
a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of 
wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey 
eyes. He shot a questioning glance at 
each of us-, placed his shiny top hat upon 
the sideboard, and, with a slight bow, sidled 
down into the nearest chair. 

" Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,". 
said Holmes. " I think that this type- 
written letter is from you, in which you 
made an appointment with me for six 
o'clock ? " . 

" Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little 
late, but I am not quite my own master, 
you know. I am sorry that Miss Suther- 
land has troubled you about this little 
matter, for I think it is far better not to 
wash linen of the sort in public. It was 
quite against my wishes that she came, but 
she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as 
you may have noticed, and she is not easily 
controlled when she has made up her mind 
on a point. Of course, I did not mind you 
so much, as you are not connected with the 
official police, but it is not pleasant to have 
a family misfortune like this noised abroad. 
Besides it is a useless expense, for how 
could you possibly find this Hosmer 
Angel ? " 

" On the contrary," said Holmes, quietly ; 
" I have every reason to believe that I will 
succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel." 

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and 
dropped his gloves. " I am delighted to 
hear it," he said. 

" It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, 
" that a typewriter has really quite as 
much individuality as a man's hand- 
writing. Unless they are quite new, no 
two of them write exactly alike. Some 
letters get more worn than others, and 
some wear only on one side. Now, you 
remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windi- 
bank, that in every case there is some little 

slurring over of the ' e^ and a slight defect 
in the tail of the ' r.' There are fourteen 
other characteristics, but those are the 
more obvious." 

" We do all our correspondence with 
this machine at the office, and no doubt it 
is a little worn," our visitor answered, 
glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright 
little eyes. 

" And now I will show you what is really 
a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank," 
Holmes continued. " I think of writing 
another little monograph some of these 
days on the typewriter and its relation to 
crime. It is a subject to which I have 
devoted some little attention. I have here 
four letters which purport to come from 
the missing man. They are all type- 
written. In each case, not only are the 
' e's' slurred and the ' r's ' tailless, but you 
will observe, if you care to use my magni- 
fying lens, that the fourteen other charac- 
teristics to which I have alluded are there 
as well." 

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair, 
and picked up his hat. " I cannot waste 
time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. 
Holmes," he said. " If you can catch the 
man, catch him, and let me know when 
you have done it." 

" Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over 
and turning the key in the door. " I let 
you know, then, that I have caught him ! " 

" What ! where ? " shouted Mr. Windi- 
bank, turning white to his tfps, and glancing 
about him like a rat in a trap. 

" Oh, it won't do — really it won't," said 
Holmes, suavely. "There is no possible 
getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is 
quite too transparent, and it was a very 
bad compliment when you said that it was 
impossible for me to solve so simple a 
question. That's right ! Sit down, and 
let us talk it over." 

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a 
ghastly face, and a glitter of moisture on 
his brow. "It — it's not actionable," he 

" I am very much afraid that it is not. 
But between ourselves, Windibank, it was 
as cruel, and selfish, and heartless a trick in 
a petty way as ever came before me. Now, 
let me just run over the course of events, 
and you will contradict me, if I go wrong." 

The man sat huddled up in his chair, 
with his head sunk upon his breast, like 
one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck 
his feet up on the corner of the mantel- 
piece, and, leau-Jiig back with his hands in 



his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, 
as it seemed, than to us. 

"The man married a woman very much 
older than himself for her money," said he, 
M and he enjoyed the use of the money of 
the daughter as long as she lived with them. 
It was a considerable sum, for people in 
their position, and the loss of it would have 
made a serious difference. It was worth an 
effort to preserve it. The daughter was of 
a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate 
and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it 
was evident that with her fair personal 
advantages, and her little income, she 
would not be allowed to remain single long. 
Now her marriage would mean, of course, 
the loss of a hundred a year, so what does 
her stepfather do to prevent it ? He takes 
the obvious course of keeping iter at home, 
and forbidding her to seek the company of 
people of her own age. But soon he found 
that that would not answer for ever. She 
became restive, insisted upon her rights, 
and finally announced her positive intention 
of going to a certain ball. What does her 

clever stepfather do then ? He conceives 
an idea more creditable to his head than to 
his heart. With the connivance and assist- 
ance of his wife he disguised himself, 
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, 
masked the face with a moustache and a 
pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear 
voice into an insinuating whisper, and 
doubly secure on account of the girl's short 
sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, 
and keeps off other lovers by making love 

" It was only a joke at first," groaned 
our visitor. " We never thought that she 
would have been so carried away." 

"Very likely not. However that may 
be, the young lady was very decidedly 
carried away, and having quite made upher 
mind that her stepfather was in France, the 
suspicion of treachery never for an instant 
entered her mind. She was flattered by the 
gentleman's attentions, and the effect was 
increased by the loudly expressed admira- 
tion of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began 
to call, for it was obvious that the matter 



should be pushed as far as it would go, if a 
real effect were to be produced. There 
were meetings, and an engagement, which 
would finally secure the girl's affections 
from turning towards anyone else. But the 
deception could not be kept up for ever. 
These pretended journeys to France were 
rather cumbrous. The thing to do was 
clearly to bring the business to an end in 
such a dramatic manner that it would leave 
a permanent impression upon the young 
lady's mind, and prevent her from looking 
upon any other suitor for some time to 
come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted 
upon a Testament, and hence also the ailu- 
sions to a possibility of something happen- 
ing on the very morning of the wedding. 
James Wmdibank wished Miss Sutherland 
to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so 
uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to 
come, at any rate, she would not listen to 
another man. As far as 
the church door he 
brought her, and then, 
as he could go no 
further, he conveniently 
vanished away by the 
old trick of stepping in 
at one door of a four- 
wheeler, and out at the 
other. I think that that 
was the chain of events, 
Mr. Windibank I " 

Our visitor had re- 
covered something of 
his assurance while 
Holmes had been talk 
ing, and he rose from 
his chair now with a 
cold sneer upon his pale 

M It may be so, or it 
may not, Mr. Holmes/' 
said he, " but if you are 
so very sharp you ought 
to be sharp enough to 
know that it is you who 
are breaking the law 
now, and not me. I 
have done nothing 
actionable from the first, 
but as long as you keep 
that door locked you 
lay yourself open to an 
action for assault and 
illegal constraint." 

" The law cannot, a* 
you say, touch you," 
"said Holmes, unlocking 

and throwing open the door, u yet there 
never was a man who deserved punish- 
ment more. If the young lady has a 
brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip 
across your shoulders. By Jove ! '' he 
continued, flushing up at the sight of the 
bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is 
not part of my duties to my client, but 
here's a hunting crop handy, and I think 

I shall just treat myself to -" He took 

two swift steps to the whip, but before he 
could grasp it there was a wild clatter of 
steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door 
banged, and from the window we could see 
Mr. James "Windibank running at the top 
of his speed down the road. 

" There's a cold-blooded scoundrel ! " said 
Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself 
down into his chair once more, M That 
fellow will rise from crime to crime until 
he does something very bad, and ends on a 


gallows. The case has, in some respects, 
been not entirely devoid of interest." 

" I cannot now entirely see all the steps 
of your reasoning/' I remarked. 





" Well, of course it was obvious from the 
first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have 
some strong object for his curious conduct, 
and it was equally clear that the only man 
who really profited by the incident, as far 
as we could see, was the stepfather. Then 
the fact that the two men were never 
together, but that the one always appeared 
when the other was away, was suggestive. 
So were the tinted spectacles and the curious 
voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as 
did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions 
were all confirmed by his peculiar action in 
typewriting his signature, which of course 
infeired that his handwriting was so familiar 
to her that she would recognise even the 
smallest sample of it. You see all these 
isolated facts, together with many minor 
ones, all pointed in the same direction." 
" And how did you verify them ? " 
"Having once spotted my man, it was 
easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm 
for which this man worked. Having taken 
the printed description, I eliminated every- 

thing from it which could be the result of 

a disguise — the whiskers, the glasses, the 
voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a re- 
quest that they would inform me whether 
it answered to the description of any of 
their travellers. I had already noticed the 
peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote 
to the man himself at his business address, 
asking him if he would come here. As I 
expected, his reply was typewritten, and 
revealed the same trivial but characteristic 
defects. The same post brought me a letter 
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch- 
street, to say that the description tallied in 
every respect with that of their employe^ 
James Windibank. Voila tout ! " 

" And Miss Sutherland ? " 

" If I tell her she will not believe me. 
You may remember the old Persian saying, 
' There is danger for him who taketh the 
tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches 
a delusion from a woman.' There is as 
much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as 
much knowledge of the world." 

Original from 

Street-Corner Men. 

MONG the varied 
occupations of 
the people of a 
great city, and 
the many di- 
verse and curi- 
ous ways of 
getting a living 
therein, perhaps 
none are more 
interesting to 
study than the 
irregular indi- 

viduals who may be seen at various 
street corners, and almost on any night 
of the week, in the various High streets 
and main thoroughfares of the suburbs, 
cajoling, lecturing, flattering, preaching, 
and dogmatically and assertively declaring, 
by all and every kind of method, the 
advantages to the public of an invest- 
ment in their particular kind of goods or a 
subscription towards the open-air entertain- 
ment they provide. The copper wire- 
worker, who with aid of pliers rapidly 
evolves models of bicycles, ordinaries and 
safeties, flower-stands, vases, card-baskets, 
&c. ; the glass collar-stud and inexhaustible 
glass fountain-pen seller ; the little old man 
who, with candle and old kettle, constantly 
pierces holes in the latter to mend with his 
patent solder, " Two sticks a penny, any 
child can do it " ; the public benefactor and 
proprietor of a patent corn solvent ; the con- 
juring-cards seller, li any one, man, woman, 
or child, can perform these ere tricks the 
same has wot hi do" ; the boot-blacking stall- 
keeper ; the silvcrer of old brass articles ; the 
herb- vendor of penny packets to mix with 
tobacco to destroy the ill effects of nicotine, 
with printed placard of illustrious person- 
ages' opinions of smoking : the purveyor of 
old monthly parts of various illustrated 

magazines and periodicals, the umbrella 
seller, the conjuror, the open-air TeciteT ; 
these and many others, with every kind of 
dodge and manoeuvre to extract pence from 
the pockets of the people, are the street- 
corner men of this great metropolis. 

A curious fact about these itinerants is 
observable ; the majority are selling medi- 
cines or compounds to cure the ills of the 
flesh, presumably the needs and necessities 
of the people in the direction of cheap 
medicines receiving more attention, and the 
trade being more lucrative, than the retail- 
ing of articles of a domestic character. Their 
methods of attracting attention are various. 
One well-known character about the London 
streets regularly prefaces the sale of his 
patent digestive cure-all, kill-pain, stomach- 
regulating tonic with a rather elaborate 
experiment with two wine-glasses,apparently 
clean and empty, somewhat on the lines of 
the conjuror's manipulation of a variety of 

A little cold water poured into one makes 
no change, but with the other a muddy, 
dirty-red coloured liquid is the result, 
typical of a disordered state of health. 




"Now," tri- 
declares the 
street quack, "you 
will see the magical 
effect of ray patent 
curative, blood puri- 
fying, health-restor- 
ing, digestive tonic." 
Two drops of this 
into the muddy, 
dirty-red liquid 

chemically restores the water to its former 
apparent purity, and the effect upon the 
health of the purchaser is analogously 
equally effica- 
cious. Strong 
lungs, a tre- 
mendous voice, 
and emphatic 
help to sell a 
great number of 

Another re* 
generator of his 
race begins from 
the platform of 
a smart pony 
and trap, by an 
amusing ac- 
count of hav- 
ing landed from 
New York with 
the traditional 
half-crown in his 
pocket, and, 

wandering down 
the White- 
chapel-road, was 
attracted by a 
quack medicine- 

'' The idea 
then struck me," 
he continues, 
H that I would 
never rest until, 
unaided a'n d 
alone, I had 
become the 
greatest doctor 
of the London 
streets. That 
proud position 
I now enjoy. 
' How do you do 
it, Shaw ? * says 
one. 'Mere 
luck,' says ano- 
ther. How have 
I done it? I will 
tell you how I 
have done it. 
Take my health- 
giving hop -bit- 
ters ; not Dr, 
Soules' hop-bit- 
ters, for which 
you have to pay 
is. i^d. and 
2s. 7|d. a bottle, but take my patent hop- 
bitters, one penny a packet, and you will 
never again be troubled — ," and here 
follows a splendid list of 
every ailment that could 
possibly afflict suffering 
humanity. Having sold 
out all his hop-bitters, he- 
would then bring on the 
scene, utterly and de- 
fiantly regardless of any 
copyright of the title, 
his famous tooth-powder 
kt Cherry Blossom,' which 
was to "purify the breath, 
cluanse the teeth, harden 
the gums, re- 
novate the teeth, 
stop decay, 
beautify the 
complexi on,'' 
&c, and in 
general make life 
a paradise, all 
for the small 
turn of one 
penny a box. 
Occasionally a 
boy is had up 
from the crowd, 
and his teeth 




cleaned for him with a small piece of 
wadding, though generally a fairly good 
specimen dentally is selected. 

The writer once stopped to listen to 
another type of quack, more modestly 
served with the usual naphtha lamp and 
small box on stand. He was a 
man with a fierce eye and very 
sallow complexion, who rejoiced 
to find one of his audience at 
the time afflicted with face-ache 
or neuralgia. He had an in- 
stantaneous cure by inhalation, 
and, indeed, if unable to discover 
a face bound up with a hand- 
kerchief or some other apparent 
evidence of neuralgic pains, 
would boldly and thunderingly 
accuse any particular one of the 
listeners of sciatica, neuralgia, 
tic-doloureux, or some other 
complaint, to the blushing con- 
fusion and ineffable distress of 
the victim of his declaration. 

Another gentleman, with every 
assurance, declared solemnly that 
he was not there for himself, he war- 
working on behalf of a very dear friend 
laid on a bsd of sickness. He (the quack) 
had made enough and plenty of money to 
last him all his lifetime, and, appare nth- 
forgetting what he had said before, was 
selling his herbal compound purely, solely; 
and simply for the benefit of the people. 

If he hadn't enough to last him a lifetime, 
he was apparently pretty well off, as his 
well-appointed pony and trap sufficiently 

But the open-air entertainments are, of 
course, if not more amusing, certainly more 
attractive to the crowd. 

We have seen more than one very excel- 
lent conjuror at a street corner, and as it is 
necessarily more difficult to perform in the 
open with little or 
no apparatus, and 
the audience com- 
pletely surrounding 
one, perhaps they 
may be entitled to 
some credit. 

Guinea-pigs dis- 
covered under an 
old hat, which had 
the moment before 
been lifted to show 
its emptiness by a 
small wand held at 
tucked - up - sleeved 
arms' length, rapid manipulation with cups 
and marbles, card tricks neatly shown, and 
other feats of legerdemain are comprised in 
the street conjuror's programme. 

Open-air recitations have become very 
prevalent of late years. Here is one who 

is a familiar 
figure perhaps 
to many. 

11 You see 
before you, 
ladies and 
gentlemen, a 
trained ac^Qrfgj ria |..^ c , mTA({T ^ 1EOUS 




and accom- 
plished el-o-cu- 
tionist, one 
who has tra- 
velled through- 
out the whole 
of the coun- " a conjuror.* 

tries of Europe, 

Asia, Africa, and America." It is no 
use, apparently, unless one is thorough 
in one's statements. " I have given recita- 
tions in the bleak frost-laden countries of 
Northern Russia and Siberiar, in the balmy 
climates of the South, the burning deserts 
of the East, and the wild backwoods of 
America, and for the small sum of 
6d." (collected in advance) " will 
give you any recitation you chuse 
to harsk for, from Homah or 
Shakespeah down to George R. 
Sims. I require 6d. only, to get 
my night's lodging." 

"Nobody venturing to suggest a 
subject — or, if they do, it's about 
the same — our hero impressively 
gives out "Christmas Day in the 
Workhouse,'' by George R. Sims, 
fairly enough recited ; at the con- 
clusion of which anotheT street- 
corner is sought for the same 

Another class of street-corner 
men are more of the "Cheap Jack" 
kind of individual. The wily lures 
of some of these gentlemen are not 
always discoverable by a cuTsory 
attention to their methods. Ima- 
gine coming upon a young fellow 
m a trap, with the usual flaming 
naphtha lamps, solemnly holding a 
boy whose head has a white kerchief 
over it, looking much like a small 
culprit prepared for the hangman, 

and the said young fellow, with great volu- 
bility, explaining sdme extraordinary and 
curious phenomenon which would happen, if 
sufficient attention were paid, but of which 
it is impossible to make head or tail. This 
is the simple dodge to collect an audience. 
That once done, the handkerchief is 
whipped off, the boy nimbly jumps down, 
and a copy of The Evening News arid Tbst 
is carefully scanned to point out the adver- 
tisement of the young fellow's master, who, 
purely for advertising purposes, has sent 
him to this street -corner to sell, or rather, 
give away, for the audience is emphatic- 
ally assured that all money taken will be 
returned, the celebrated pure Abyssinian 
double electric gold rings to be had at his 
master's establishment only, at the adver- 
tised price of is. 4d. ''I harsk only one 
penny from each person for one of these 
rings. I am not allowed to sell less than 
one dozen, the same as hadvertised at 
is. 4d." (here the advertisement in The 
Evening News is again referred to, this 
time the paper upside down ; but that is of 
no consequence) ; "and all those who pur- 
chase this ring, stay where you are ; don't 
go away." 

The dozen disposed of, the purchasers 
are requested to hold up their hands, and 
the pennies are duly returned. So far, so 
good. The next article would be a magni- 
ficently chased, pure Abyssinian double 
electric keeper ripg, looking sparkling! y 
bright in the glare of the 
lanips, for which twopence is 
asked, though sold at the head 
establishment at 2s. 6d., and 
the purchasers are earnestly 
entreated not to go away. 
Obvious deduction, the two- 
pence of course 
to be returned. 
Two dozen only 
allowed to be sold 
of these. When 
duly disposed of, 
and another 
dozen tried in 
defiance of the 
strict regulations, 
it is found with 
the very extreme 
of irrelevance 
that time does 
not permit of 
several gold and 
silver watches 
» iQflfiij&fliifpom being given 



away, so the " tuppences " are swept into 
the young fellow's pocket, to enable him, 
as he says, to give the 
audience another 

Diving quickly into 
a large box, paper 
packets are produced 
warranted to contain 
something, if only a 
bent wire button -hook, 
two of these being sold 
for id. 

The sale slackening, 
one or two are opened, 
and out fall ivory- 
handled pocket knives, 
gold and silver alberts, 
brooches, &c. A 
fictitious rush thus 
created, divings into 
the box are rapid and 
frequent, with a large 
occurrence of bent 
wire button-hooks and 
waste-paper among the 
sold packets. Apparently the public 
rather enjoy the joke of this chance lottery. 

We once came across a very good- 

tempered -looking sort of Cheap- Jack who 
was selling for sixpence whaf he called the 
great Parisian novelty, 
a pocket knife that had 
a glazier's diamond in 
the head (with which . 
he cut up quantities of 
glass), two blades, a 
file, scissors, corkscrew, 
gimlet, and goodness 
knows what besides ; 
and he had in addition 
albums, scissors, plated 
spoons, and all kinds of 
domestic cutlery. 

"What! Don't want 
no albums ! Well, 
what shall 1 show yer ? 
I've tried yer with 
everythink. But there, 
I hain't agoing to 
despair, I've got a 
little harticle here — I 
hain't a-going to tell 
audience." yer no more lies to- 

night ; if I do, may I 
be a teetotaler — I've got a little harticle 
here — and I've houly got a very few, so 
you'll have to be quick — a carver, carving 
fork, and steel, real Sheffield make, 
the maker's name stamped on the 
blade ; none o' yer German-sausage 
manufacture, real English ; a little 
harticle that, if yer wos to take 
'em to Mappings or Benetfink's, or 
any o T them thsre places, I tell yer, 
it would make them open their 
eyes. They'd tell yer they'd never 
seen Mich carvers before, and 1 dare 
say they never did. Now, who'll 
'ave 'em? Eighteenpence, fifteen— 
'ere, a shillin' ; who'll 'ave 'em ? 
'Ere, look 'ere, ninepence, eight- 
pence" (with a bang), "sixpence! 
Now who'll 'ave 
'em? If I can't sell 
'em to yer, I'll give 
'em to yer. Fancy, 
'ere's a present for 
the missus ! Why, 
you'd be able to 
buy twice as much 
meat for yer Sun- 
day's dinner ; the 
carvers 'ud cut it 
up so quick ; and, 
after dinner, you 
could sit at the 
ginalfroiVr inder arid blow 



yer bacca ; and all for the small sum of 
sixpence ! Now hain't that much better 
than sharpening hup the hold knife on the 
winder-sill in yer shirt sleeves, when the 
people's a-coming out 0' church down 
below ? Now, who'll 'ave 'em, honly 
sixpence^ and I'll make yer a present of the 
sheet of paper they're wrapped in ? " 

And so he went on, when one article 
hung fire promptly introducing fresh ones. 

Many other street-corner men there are ; 
the sweetstuff man, for instance, who sells 

so rapidly that two boys are employed to 
open the bags for him— one penny a 
quarter of a pound — and occasionally 
mohair lace sellers, puzzle and toy retailers, 
shipwrecked mariners, street butchers, song 
sellers, negro entertainers, and others ; but 
we have endeavoured, within the limits of 
this article, to indicate only some of the 
characters who make a speciality of a street- 
corner pitch, rather than the heterogeneous 
army of those who may be termed the 
kerbstone characters of the London streets. 

Original from 

For an Old Debt. 


So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 

See, 1 shut it inside the sweet, cold hand I 
There, that is our secret : go to sleep i 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 


HLD Sim was the name they 
gave him, but he was by no 
means old — thirty at the 
most. He had an old- 
fashioned way with him ; 
that, 1 suppose, was the reason 
of it. He had a slow, methodical way of 
setting about his business j but whatever 
he did, tardy though its accomplishment, 
was well done, He had a slow way, too, 
of taking to people — looked at first with 
suspicion upon everyone and everything, 
but once he had taken to a man he stuck to 
him through thick and thin, 

Phil was a different creature. He had 
none of those premature wrinkles which 
disfigured — yes, disfigured— his brother'* 
face. Why should he ? Life was serious 
enough, in all conscience, without making 
it more serious. 

" Old Sim — dear old Sim I 

must have followed the line, by right divine,, 
of Methusaleh, some people thought, and 
there criticism stopped. Adverse tongues 
could sav no more than that, and Heaven 
forbid that Phil should be on their side. 
Sim had earned his living almost from the 
time he had cut his teeth ; so, at least, it 
was averred. His father, who had a car- 
penter's shop in Hadlow, had died, leaving 
the business in difficulties, from which Sim,, 
by dogged perseverance, had extricated it. 

Phil admired his brother, but frankly 
confessed he was unable to imitate hint. 
Perseverance was not in his blood, and 
what isn't in the blood — well, you know 
the proverb. He had been of a restless 
turn ; could not settle down, for the life ot 
him, to any one thing long. When a boy 
he had run away to sea ; but had come 
back, after a couple of years, with much 
less enthusiasm for the nautical profession 
than when he started. 
Then he evinced a love 
for the drama. He joined 
a strolling company. His- 
experience on the stage- 
was much shorter than 
his experience on the 
ocean. Six months suf- 
ficed. He came back hun- 
gry, ragged, and footsore. 
Sim was his refuge at all 
times. He stood between 
him and the father when 
the latter, after one of his 
early escapades, called him 
vagabond, and would have 
turned him out of doors. 
And when the time came 
that there was no father 
or mother in the home- 
stead, Sim occupied the 
place of both. As Phil 
put it, in the stage slang 
he sometimes affected, Sim was a sort of 
'•combination company,'' or "general 
utility man." 

It was hard to discover what precise 
object Sim had in life. His brother could 
never make out. He hadn't even a hobby. 
Original from 



That kind of thing is dangerous. Phil 
said it was, and he of course knew. lie 
had two or three hobbies. He thought 
them necessary for mental and physical 
equilibrium. It was noticed, however, that 
Sim's colour — what little he had of it — 
would come quicker and go quicker when 
Miss Katie Hewson came to the shop. The 
wrinkles in his face would make their way 
into curious crannies, and broaden out into 
a smile. It was pleasant to see Sim at 
such times. Then you might be sworn his 
life was not altogether objectless. 

Phil was going along steadily enough at 
this time— to all appearances, at least. He 
was earning fairly good wages as a clerk at 
the Hadlow Brewery, and stuck to his desk 
with a diligence that surprised and delighted 
his brother. 

One evening, just as the autumn had 
begun, and the leaves were beginning to 
fall from the trees, he came in, and did 
not, as was his wont, stir out again. He 
chatted away in his careless, free style to 
Sim ; admired the cabinet he had almost 
finished, which was intended as an ex- 
hibit at a forthcoming exhibition in the 
district, and for *' possibilities' 1 afterwards. 
Phil remarked among other things in keep- 
ing with these possibilities, that it would be 
a handsome addition to Sim's home when 
he got married, a- he supposed he some 
day would. Sim gave a 
deprecatory twist of the 
head t but his face broad- 
ened out into one of 
those queer smiles of his. 
Then Phil took three or 
four energetic puffs at his 
pipe, watched intently 
for a minute or so the 
graceful circlets and 
wavering outlines of the 
smoke, and broke out 
abruptly : 

''Sim, old fellow, I 
know that I am indebted 
to you for a lot — more 
than I can ever repay 
you. Will you help me 
to wipe it off? " 

Sim kept on doggedly 
at his work. He had 
heard something like this 

"Ah, I see you distrust 
me. Quite right, old 
fellow. I know that I've 
given you cause." 

Sim put down his tools now, and looked 

" Don't put it that way, boy "—Phil was 
only four years younger than Sim, but he 
still regarded him as a boy — " don't put it 
that way. Have I ever mistrusted you ? I 
know that you've had your oals to sow. 
You've sown them, and we've got rid of the 
bad crop, haven't we ? Shake hands on it." 

u Right, Sim, Tight. But will you trust 
me a little further." 

" Out with it, boy." 

11 I've a scheme in my mind by which I 
hope to clear off some — all, in fact — of the 
debt I'm still under to you. Only — and 
here's the difficulty— I want ^20 to do it.'' 

" Don't you think anything about the 
debt that's due to me. Between brothers 
there's no debt and credit account, and 

" Oh, yes, Sim, I know you ; I know 
your kind heart, God bless you ; but I'm 
not altogether disinterested. My scheme, 
which is certain to succeed, will make me a 
more prosperous, a happier man. Now do 
you see where I am ? Will you help me to 
that ? " 

Sim thought for a moment. Twenty 
pounds would clear him out. He had just 
that amount in hand. He had withdrawn 
it only that day from the bank — Phil, of 
course, was unacquainted with that fact — for 

mviAiMSD iiOfiiq^diftwftt usual.* 




the purpose of clearing off the mortgage 
still remaining upon the house. One 
thing made his decision the harder. That 
afternoon Miss Kate Hewson had called in 
on some excuse or other. Her hand had 
remained in his longer than usual at part- 
ing, and she had — yes, there was no mis- 
taking it — distinctly returned his pressure. 
A small thing ? Very ; but to a soft, 
impressionable nature like Sim's it meant 
a great deal. In the imaginative picture 
that pressure summoned up came the diffi- 
culty ; for, if you have before you an object, 
the attainment of which necessitates an 
acquaintance with the principles of £ s. d., 
it is hard to part with the multiples by 
which the sum can be worked out. 

"Ah, Sim, you are getting selfish, you 
are getting selfish," he soliloquised. Then 
his honest, grey eyes looked straight into 
Phil's : " You shall have it," he said ; "but 
you'll be careful, Phil : it's all I have." 
Not a word about his intentions : not a 
word about the mortgage. When Sim did 
a thing, you see, he did not do it by halves. 

Three days after this interview there was 
considerable excitement in Hadlow. Give 
people something to talk about in a village, 
and you may rely upon them carrying out 
the contract. Item one — Philip Pentreath 
had disappeared. Item two — Miss Kate 
Hewson had disappeared also. Item three 
—there was a small discrepancy in Phil's 
accounts at the brewery, which, rumour 
said, amounted to ^"50. There was another 
item — a very inconsiderable one this — 
Simeon Pentreath was ill. All of which 
items were summed up in the general re- 
mark — " Poor old Sim ! " To this pity Sim 
was indifferent, for the simple reason that 
he was oblivious either to censure or blame. 
He had a long struggle to regain that happy 
condition of consciousness to public opinion 
which he would have preferred being with- 
out ; but struggling had been in Sim's line, 
and, though he did not throw any particular 
heart in the present combat, he eventually, 
in spite of himself, and thanks mainly to a 
compassionate neighbour who nursed him 
day and night, succeeded in turning out the 
Dark Shadow which had hovered over his 
threshold. You would have quite under- 
stood the grim victory he achieved had you 
seen him afterwards. He himself was so 
much of a shadow that there were sufficient 
reasons why the other should have given up 
the competition. 

Of course there came a letter of deep 
contrition from Phil, to which his newly- 

made wife — nee Miss Kate Hewson—- 
appended, in a neat postscript, " her love." 
Equally, as a matter of course, Phil was 
going to carve out a fortune in the land — ■ 
Australia — which he had honoured with his 
presence, and intended to pay Sim tenfold 
for the " small sum " he had borrowed of 
him. Phil was kind enough to say all this, 
for which mark of brotherly regard (as well 
as the sisterly postscript) Sim should have 
been devoutly thankful. Only — Sim was 
so diffident — he never took the trouble to 
thus express himself. Those queer wrinkles 
deepened a bit, that was all. These alone 
told to the curious what his struggle had 

There was one circumstance which pre- 
vented him from becoming quite a misan- 
thrope. It occurred about eight years after 
his brother left Hadlow. Mrs. Cortis, 
the neighbour who had watched over him 
through his illness, herself succumbed to 
the fate from which she had saved him. 
Her husband followed within a few short 
months. They left a little girl, who could 
only just toddle. Mary was her name. 
This fatality — out of the husk of misery 
sometimes comes a kernel of happiness — 
was Sim's salvation. The child had no 
relatives in the village, and he adopted her. 
Strange foster-father and — mother ! Yes, 
Sim was a " general utility man," no doubt 
of it. 

The gnarled tree shot its arms around 
this tendril, and held it fast. It expanded 
with its expansion. Sim had lost faith in 
mankind, taken in its adult branches. He 
wanted to discover if there was not an ex- 
ception to the general stock, taken in its 
earlier growth. The experiment, he plainly 
foresaw, was a risky one ; but life after all 
was an experiment. He had been taunted 
with having no hobby. Why should not 
he, like the rest of them, have one ? 

Had he remained at this dubious stage, 
the hobby would not have proved a very 
hopeful or attractive one. When a person 
once starts analysis, the process is simply 
intellectual — not of the heart. Sim soon 
grew out of this. The child became to him 
not a problem, but a reality. She under- 
went this metamorphosis when she first 
lisped the name of " Father ! " Sim then 
comprehended to the full his responsibilities, 
and, God helping him, he said, he would not 
shirk them. 

And the child gave him back in interest 
all she received. The carpenter's shop, 
wrapped for so long in gloom, became 




radiant with sunshine. She prattled to him joy, tempered with fear. At such times 
as he worked at the bench ; had her own the thought would cross his mind, " She 
hammer and her own piece of wood to cannot always be my lass I Someone else 
knock imaginary tacks in ; and began to will step in, and claim the priie." As this 
be ambitious of the use of chisel and saw — thought came, and he pictured his desolate 
an ambition which Sim would artfully hearth — home without Mary— he would 
counteract by the opportune provision of cry out in agony : H My God, let it not be ! 
putty and like harmless material. I have suffered ; am content to suffer still 

Then there came the schooldays, in which more : but spare me that agony ! " 
it was Sim's delight to watch the progres- Is there not some occult power of 
sion from pot-hooks and hangers to the divination between hearts attuned to the 
proud moment when she could write her same sympathies ? How else can you explain 

that when 

jghts like 

bowed the 

1 and saddened 

heatt of Sim, 

a loving pair of 

arms would be 

found around his 

neck, a warm, soft 

cheek against his 

furrowed one ? 

name. The after- 
noon which wit- 
nessed this 
evidence of her 
caligraphic skill 
was a memorable 
event. The child 
came skipping into 
the workshop with 
great glee, took 
possession of a 
large carpenter's 
pencil, and, bend- 
ing down her 
pretty head over 
a smooth deal 
board, which she 
had frequently ex- 
temporised for a 
slate, triumph- 
antly traced there- 
on, in large, capital 
letters, "MAR Y." 
The reward was a 
doll's house, fit for 
a princess, every 
piece of furniture 
in which was Sim's 
own handiwork. 

There were days 
and nights of 
anxiety, too, when 
the child had her 
first serious illness. 

head ar 
the he 

Sim had a nurse to 
attend on her, but he, after all, was the 
chief attendant at the sick-bed. The doc- 
tor laughingly told him that he would 
grant him his certificate for that profession 
at any time. Sim laughed, too, but it was 
after Mary had recovered. He could not 
afford to indulge in the luxury before, he 

said, even supposing that his muscles had ments, and 

been equal to the relaxation. What was that ? Mary was sitting by 

Thus the years sped on, until Sim really the fireside knitting ; Sim had just loaded 
became old. The child, too, expanded into his pipe. They heard footsteps outside, 
a young woman, and had grown in comeli- They looked at each other ; for they were 
ness as well as stature. Sim saw this with not in the 'mbit of having late visitors. 


Another au- 
tumn evening. 
Sim somehow al- 
ways remembered 
that time of the 
year. The chill 
breath of the com- 
ing winter could 
be felt in the air. 
You looked out- 
side and then in- 
side, and inside 
carried it by a 
large majority. 
Have you ever no- 
ticed on certain 
evenings about 
this time that or- 
■ chestral symphony 

) marv. on the part of 

Nature ; how her 
flutes, and violins, and 'cellos, and bass 
viols go to work in prelude to the last 
act of the seasons ? No ? Well, I don't 
think Sim's observation ever went so far 
as that either. Whatever had been the 
lot which life had brought him, he was 
quite content with it now. Only the 
least sensitive flesh has its creepy mo- 


There was a gentle rap on the door, and 
Mary got up and opened it. 

" Is Mr. Pentreath within ? " 

11 Yes, sir." 

" Can I sea him ? " 

A voice like an echo — dear and intel- 
ligible enough, but still an echo. 

Sim had risen to his feet. The light of 
the limp flickered in the wind, and he 
could see nothing distinctly. The flame 

way from Melbourne for that express pur- 

Sim shook hands with hitn like one in a 
dream. It seemed so unreal ; and yet there 
was that dull pain which he had thought 
dead, throb, throb, throbbing into life, 
and making all so reM. For he began 
to understand : this was Phil's son — her 
son. He was just like what the father 
ht:d been twenty-four years since : the 

steadied itself as the stranger crossed the 

" Good God, can it be ? Phil ! " 
Sim asks the question in tones of sur- 
prise, wonderment, fear. Thought has 
bridged the twenty- four years or so since 
his brother left the homestead ; he feels, 
with a quick gasp of agony, the old wound 
reopening. And yet — and yet, this cannot 
be Phil. 

" Wtfll, now, that's strange," said the 
visitor. " How the deuce do you, who have 
never seen me, come to recogni-e me 
directly you clap eyes in my direction? 
There must be a strong family likeness 
somewhere. I am Phil — Phil Pentreath, 
at your service. And you're my uncle — 
Lncle Sim — of whom I've heard so much, 
and long wished to see. Won't you shake 
hands with a fellow ? I've come all the 

same figure, eyes, expression— the same 
name, too. 

Luckily, Mary was there. By her wo- 
manly tact all feeling of constraint dis- 
appeared, and they were soon seated around 
the fire engaged in animated conversation. 
Phil Pentreath, sen,, it appeared, had pros- 
pered of recent years— was regarded quite 
as a wealthy man in the colonies. Then 
he woke up to the consciousness that he 
had a brother, and Phil Pentreath, jun., 
the only son, who had long felt a wish to 
see England, was sent, as his father's envoy, 
to " look old Sim up." 

" So, you see, I.Ve looked you up," said 
the young man, " though I must say you 
didn't seem very pleased at first. Anyhow, 
you must put up with mc for a bit, for my 
father's sake. In a little while I hope you 

will put up ©rtbjmrifaomy own." 


Sim repeated, in an absent sort of way, 
" for his father's sake, 1 ' and then they parted 
for the night. 

Young Phil had taken up his quarters at 
the Hadlow Arms, the principal 
inn in the village ; and for the 
next month or so was a frequent 
visitor at the old carpenter's shop. 
He was a frank, manly sort of 
young fellow, and made friends 
wherever he went. On the second 
day of his stay he had slipped an I 
envelope into his uncle's hand. It ' 
was from his father, he said. Sim 
was to open it when he was alone. 
■Obeying this request, he found 
within a slip of paper, on which 
were written these words only — 
" For an old debt." Enclosed with 
this was a draft for X 100 ' Sim 
went to a cupboard in the shop, 
unlocked the door, and took out a 
cabinet, thickly covered with dust 
—the cabinet upon which he had 
worked so long since, and which 
was still unfinished. He opened 
one of the drawers, took therefrom 
a document, enclosed the slip of 
paper and the draft along with this 
in an envelope, and wrote across 
it the same words contained in his 
brother's message — " For an old 
debt." The document contained 

the signatures of Messrs. Bedders; the 
brewers, in satisfaction of a sum of 
^"50 paid to them some years since by 
Simeon Pentreath, on behalf of Philip 
Pentreath, his brother. He put the en- 
velope in the drawer, and returned the 
cabinet to its hiding-place. 

Phil and Mary were naturally thrown 
very much together during this time, 
and seemed to take a great deal of plea- 
sure in each other's society. One could 
not help admiring Mary, you see, and 
— well, between young couples who can 
prevent sympathy? With declining 
years Sim had become lynx-eyed ; but 
whether he saw this growing feeling 
cannot positively be affirmed. Only, 
that old wound of hi- occasionally gave 
him greater trouble. 

Phil's visit was drawing to a close. 
He came to the shop one evening. Sim 
was asleep in his arm-chair. 

" Mary," said Phil, " do you regret 
my visit to England ? ? * 

Mary opened her sweet blue eyes in 

M Why should I, Phil ? '' she answered 

" Well, I don't know ; but I sometimes 
think Uncle Sim does," 





" Father ? No, no ; if you knew him as 
I do, you would not say that," with a 
tender look in the direction of the sleeper. 

" You love him very much ? " 

'* Very, very much. He has been more 
than a father to me." 

'' Ah ! " and the young man sighed. " I 
thought of making a request, Mary ; but I 
see it would be hopeless." 

Mary averted her face. She knew in- 
stinctively what that request was. The 
young man paused to see if there were any 
further sign, and thought he saw a tear 
stealing down the fair cheek. 

" Would you entrust your life to one 
who would love you— yes, quite as dearly 
as he ? " 

" Don't, don't," said Mary, rising to her 
feet, and still averting her face. " I know 
all you would say. But that can never be. 
My duty is here — with him. Do not tempt 
me to forget it." 

The sleeper in the arm-chair slightly 
moved. Dreaming probably. A smile 
wreathed itself around the withered lips, as 
though the dream were a happy one. 

:< Do not hastily decide, Mary. 
decision so much depends— for 
me. You like me a little : ah ! 
I see you do. I knew I was 
not so deceived as all that. 
Don't think I cannot appre- 
ciate and admire your loyalty 
— your devotion to my uncle ; 
but he would be the -last to 
stand in the way of your future 
happiness. Let me wake him, 
and you shall hear it from his 
own lips ? " 

" No — pray don't ; I know 
what his answer would be. He 
would never think of self ; he 
never has done. He would 
only think of me. He has 
devoted himself heart and sou! 
to me. I can sacrifice a little 
in return for his dear sake." 

Yes ; evidently happy dreams. 
A sigh of contentment came 
from the lips of the sleeper. 

11 Ah ! Mary," said Phil, 
"every word you utter makes 
it harder for me to relinquish 
all hope. I cannot accept your 
decision as final. See, I have 
to run over to Tun bridge this 
evening. It will be midnight 
before I return. It is now 
nine. That will give you three 

On your 

good hours to decide. If I see a light 
burning in your window— as I have often 
seen it unbeknown to you when I've 
returned here for a last look after wishing 
you good night— I will take it that your 
decision is favourable. If the light be out T 
then I shall know that my hopes are too. 
That shall be my farewell. I will not trust 
myself to see you again." 

" That would be cruel," said Mary, with 
a suppressed sob. 

"On whose part ? Not mine, Mary, for 
with you will rest the more agreeable 

And before she could say more he had 
gone. The girl covered her face with her 
hands and wept. Then she knew that life 
has its sorrows and perplexities for young 
as well as old. 

" Mary, dear."' It was the voice — very 
quiet and soft it seemed— of Sim. 

" Awake, father ? " The girl came for- 
ward and put her arms around his neck, and 
kissed him passionately. 

11 Why, lass, what's the matter ? Your 
cheek is wet. You've been crying ! " 

" And you. See ! " and with her hand 

3 INtaMWBrtalctfcStfti FLAMS." 



kerchief she tenderly wiped away two large 
tear-drops that were trickling down the 
furrowed cheeks. 

" Have I ? Well, that's queer. I must 
have been dreaming. They were happy 
dreams, though, if there were tears with 
'em. And you — have you been dreaming, 
too ? " with a quick glance at her face. 

" I have not had the chance yet," the 
said, evasively- " I will tell you to-morrow " 
— this with a forced little laugh. 

" To-morrow ! " he repeated. "Well, 
then, to-morrow. May your dreams, child, 
be happy now and always. Good-night, 

" Good-night, dearest," she answered. 

The old man folded her lovingly in his 
arms for a moment, and pressed upon her 
lips one long, lingering kiss. His eyes fol- 
lowed her as she lit a candle and went out. 

She reached her chamber, and put down 
the candlestick on the little table by the 
window. She looked into its flickering 
flame. "If the light be out, then I shall 
know that my hopes are too," he had said. 
" That shall be my farewell." 

Ah ! the decision was hard — far harder 
than she had first thought. She drew the 
curtains to one 
side, and looked 
out. Patches of 
dark grey cloud, 
which gained now 
and again gleams 
of evanescent 
light from the 
pale, cold moon, 
were moving 
fleetly on. Very 
quiet the village 
seemed, and Mary 
found herself 
wondering whe- 
ther under any 
roof therein there 
was any such 
question trem- 
bling in the bal- 
ance as that which 
on to decide. She 
again glanced up- 
ward, as though 
seeking inspira- 
tion. Like twin 
sentinels she now 
saw twinkling 
through the drift- 

ing clouds two stars— one symbolising duty ; 
the other love. Which should be her lamp ? 
She drew a deep breath, half sob, and put 
out the light. That was her answer. 

Mary's sleep was a troubled, broken one. 
She could not have slept very long, as it 
seemed to her, when she awoke with a 

shiver, and 

What was that ? The candle was alight I 
By what magic had this been done ? She 
had put it out : of that she was certain. 
Could she have risen in her sleep and re-lit 
it ? She raised herself on her elbow — now 
quite awake ; and, as she did so, felt a gust 
of cold air on her face. She looked whence 
it came, and saw that the door, which she 
had firmly closed, was partly open. She 
sprang out of bed, hurriedly drew a shawl 
around her, put on her slippers, took the 
candle f and passed out. She listened at her 
father's bedroom. No sound within. She 
opened the door. No one there, and the 
bed had not been slept in. She hastened 
below in great fear and trembling. 

And there she found him, his head rest- 
ing on a dusty old cabinet, which she never 
remembered hav- 
ing seen before. 
Just beside the 
arm which served 
him as a pillow 
was an envelope, 
on which she 
read, even in that 
anxious moment, 
" Fallen asleep 
again, poor dear," 
thought Mary. 
Then, aloud, 
" Father ! " 

No response. 
She touched him 
on the shoulder. 
Still no reply. 
"Father! Fa- 
ther!" This 
time in pathetic, 
wailing accents. 
But the sleeper 
still slept on. He 
had paid the last 
K^j great debt of all, 

Ip 1 *! render his ac- 

Original from 


Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives, 


Rorx 1804. 

ICHARD OWEN, naturalist, 
was born at Lancaster, an J 
7) in early life evinced great 
bve off the sea, and entered 
the Navy as a middy ; but 
he was only ten years old 

■when he left the 
Tribune to become a 
pupil of a surgeon. 
At twenty-one he 
entered as a student. 
at St. Bartholomew's, 
where he soon at- 
tracted the notice of 
the great Abernethy, 
who showed him 
much kindness, and 
prevented him from 
accepting a post as 
a ship's surgeon in 
a S26. "Going to sea, 
sir!" said Abernethy, 
11 you are going to 
the devil!" " I hope 
not, sir ! " "Go to 
sea ! You had better. 
I tell you, go to the 

front n t'bato. 6jr] ACE $a. |WM A* 

devil at once," reiterated rough but 
glorious John, and offered him an ap- 
pointment at the 
College of Sur- 
geons. Thus the 
Navy lost a good 
officer and Science 
gained one of her 
brightest ornaments, 
" The Newton of 
Natural History." 
Professor Owen is a 
member of every 
learned Society of 
eminence in the 
world, and Her 
Majesty has appro- 
priately recngn^ed 
his great services to 
Science by granting 
him as a residence 
Sheen Lodge, in 
^©riniiplffll f^W^ raond Park - 



\ 1 

ace 35. [rr.*/j. now 

MRS. W. H. 


^v^VE' »,7jT will be 
■'■*■ 'i V^l wil't'tosav 

^.., v- : y! that there 

^J>? j is scarcely 
a reader of 
The Strand Maga- 
zine to whom the 
features of Mrs. 
Kendal will not bj 
familiar. Her 
maiden name was 
Margaret Robert- 
son, " Our Madge," 
a famous name ; her 
brother, T. W. 
Robertson, having 
enriched our dra- 
matic literature with 
that series of pure 

and brilliant comedies. *' School," " Caste," 
■"Ours," &c., which may be said to have 
made the fame and fortune of the Bancrofts 
at the little Prince of Wales's Theatre, in 
Tottenham Court-road. The name by 
which she is known to the theatrical public 
is a mm dc theatre, her proper designation 
being Mrs. W. Hunter Grimstone. Mrs. 
Kendal commenced her dramatic training 
early ; she was no more than four years of 
age "when she took the part of the Blind 


Ouidm" The Seven 

Poor Travellers." 
Thirteen years after- 
wards, in 1865, she 
made her appear- 
ance at the Hay- 
market Theatre — 
a theatre associated 
with so many of her 
triumphs — as 
()t>hcha to the late 
Walter Mont- 
gomery's Hamlet. 
Engagements in the 
provinces, and after- 
wards at Drury Lane 
and the Hay market 
again, followed ; 
each fresh engage- 
ment being marked 
by a distinct advance 
in her powers. 
Her successes during her subsequent 
career are fresh in the remembrance of 
playgoers. Mrs. Kendal's triumphs in 
the United States are too recent, and our 
space too limited, to need recapitulation 
here. She goes again to the States this 
year, to the regret of her numerous 
admirers, who are looking forward eagerly 
to her return, when it is hoped she will 
once more take her place at the head of a 
London company. 




JR. W. H. KENDAL (William 
Hunter Grimstone) made his 
first bow to a theatrical audi- 
ence when he was eighteen 
of age, at th^ little 
Royalty Theatre in Soho, and 
afterwards migrated to the Theatre Royal, 
Glasgow, where for five years h? went 
through his apprenticeship, gaining experi- 
ence in the company of most of the leading 
actors and actresses of the day. That useful 
engagement ended, he made what is called 
his professional London debut at the Hay- 
market Theatre, making a leap to the front 
ten months afterwards by his performance, 
at the same theatre, of Orlando in "As 
You Like It." The professional association 
of his name with that of his wife is inevit- 
able, because it was in association with her 
that he achieved his greatest successes, 
notably in such plays as " Uncle's Will," 
"Pygmalion and Galatea," and "The Wicked 
World." In 1875 he went to the Court 
Theatre under the management of Mr. 
Hare, and a year afterwards, at the Prince 
of Wales's Theatre, made a remarkable suc- 
cess as Captain Beaucierc in " Diplomacy." 
In this success he was associated with Mr. 
Bancroft and the late Mr. John Clayton, 
and the celebrated scene des trots homines 

1-rtiwaPhtito.bit'] ppiESgNT DAV. [ XaJfa*-, -So* JVnurum. 

became the talk of the town. A long 
engagement at the Court Theatre followed, 
and then Mr. Hare and the Kendals joined 
business forces at the St. James's Theatre, a 
partnership which afforded so much delight 
to the public that there was a general 
expression of re^ii.: when it was broken. 





Born 1850. 

R I N C E 

the third 
son of Queen 
born at 
Buckingham Palace 
oh the first of May, 
1 H 50, was, at the ages 
at which our first two 
portraits represent him, 
receiving his education 
privately ; but at six- 
teen, it having been 
decided that he should 
become a soldier, he 
was entered at Wool- 
wich, where he studied 
military science for 
three years. Our third 
portrait shows him at 
this time in the cadet 
uniform of the Royal 
Artillery. A year later 


he joined the Rifle Brigade, 
of which he was to become 
colonel-in-chief in 1880, 
and the uniform of which 
he is wearing in the fourth 
portrait here presented. 
At twenty-four — the age 
of this portrait — Prince 
Arthur was created Duke 
of Comiaught and Strath - 
earn, and Earl of Sussex. 
Five years later he married 
Princess Louise 
Margaret of Prussia. 
The Duke of Con- 
naught has seen active 
service in Egypt, the 
cross for which he wears 
on his left breast in the 
portrait of him at the 
present day which is 
here given. His popu- 
larity with his men is 
great, and his efficiency 
as a commander is well 
recognised; and, 
according to recent 
reports, he is likely in 
the future to fill a more 
prominent position in 
the public eye than 



Born 1S4S. 





of Ed in - 

burgh, whose 
name is now so widely 
and popularly known, was 
born in November, 1848. 
His parents were not in 
flourishing circxim stances, 
and losing his father when 
he was eight years of age, 
and his mother when he 
was fifteen, he was left but 
poorly furnished by fortune 
to fight his way through life. Being his 
own pilot, and being early imbued with an 
earnest desire to become a doctor, he set to 
work to educate himself, and became a 
student at the County Hospital, Brighton, 
and subsequently at Guy's Hospital, Lon- 
don. He then spent some time studying 
in Parrs, Brussels, and in various medical 
centres in Germany and Italy. In [870 he 
started practice in Brighton, and there 

achieved so considerable a 
reputation that he opened 
consulting rooms in Lon- 
don, which he attended 
regularly for five years, 
continuing his professional 
labours in Brighton the 
while. In 1884 he took 
up his permanent residence 
in London, where he 
speedily made an extensive 
practice and became an 
established authority. He 
is the author of several 
works, among which may 
be mentioned his book on 
M Gout," which has passed 
{is*r. a *i through six editions in 
England, and has been 
translated into French and German. To 
a masterly knowledge of the disorders he 
treats Dr. Robson Roose adds the valuable 
qualities of a sympathetic nature, and 
he possesses a rare tact in inspiring 
confidence in the patients who throng his 
consulting rooms. His connection is 

largely political and literary, and in art 
circles' he is greatly esteemed for his kindly 
manners and his skill. 

Original from 



(Stkphkx Adams.) 

has produce. 
o great 
living ba- 

ley and Michael May brick. 
The latters musical abili- 
ties showed themselves 
early, for at eight he had 
learned tn play the piano, 
and at fourteen he was 

Lcipsic and Milan ; then, 
returning to England, he 
appeared in public with 
instantaneous success. It 
is strange, however, that 
while studying at Leipsic 
' is vocal powers should 
ave been discovered, 
while his talent for com- 
position should have 
escaped recognition. It 
was not until after his 
appearance as a singer that 
he began to write songs for 
himself. "The Warrior 

appointed organist of 
St. Peter's, the parish 
church of Liverpool, 
his native city, a 
position which he 
filled for eight years. 
As an accompanist 
in the concert- room, 
ne was also held 
in great request. 
Obtaining leave of 
absence, he entered 
the Conservatoire at 
Leipsic, where it was 
discovered for the 
first time that his 
voice was a very finj 
one. For two years 
he studied singing at f™n 

[Uetethzm* ^H^iflro^iif |-, : jftjmself. 


Bold " appeared under 
the now familiar name 
of Stephen Adams. 
Then, in 1870, came 
" Nancy Lee," a song 
whose swing and 
strength of rhythm 
obtained for it an 
extraordinary popula- 
rity. Perhaps no song 
was ever sung, played, 
hummed. and whistled 
to the same extent. 
All Mr. Ma v brick's 
songs enjoy the rare 
advantage of being 
introduced to the pub- 
lic by the compose]- 


producing songs which "caught 
on " the moment they were heard ; 
and all the country sang ''Buffalo 
Girls," M Coal Black Rose," and 
"Get out of the way, Ole Dan 
Tucker." Henry Russell was born 
December 24, 1 81 3, and was singing 
contralto at Drury Lane Theatre 
when Elliston was impresario. 
He sang before George IV., and 
he relates how the King took him 
on his knee and kissed him. In 
1825 he went to Bologna to study, 

Bokx 1813. 

OR years enough to satisfy 

everybody's mouth, 
and it is to be doubted 
whether any composer 
of songs for the people 
ever enjoyed a greater 
popularity. When we 
were children our 
parents used to sing 
" Woodman, spare that 
Tree," "The Ivy 
Green," " Cheer, Boys, 
Cheer," " Man the Life- 
boat," " There's a good 
time coming," and 
other songs of his. He 
had the happy talent, 
in addition to his great 
gifts, of hitting the 
public taste, and of 

and there he gained a 
gold medal for an ori- 
ginal operetta. At 
twenty he went to 
America, and there 
commenced his won- 
derfully successful 
career as a descriptive 
singer. In England he 
dre vv crowded aud iences 
everywhere, and one of 
his entertainments t en- 
titled "The Far West," 
contributed greatly to 
the flow of emigration 
to the United Stales 
and our colonies. Mr. 
Russell is seventy-eight 
years of age, and looks 
"twenty years younger. 
He is the father of 
Mr. Clark Russell, the 

{Ewrami well-known novelist. 

tjngihal from 


claiming : " But do you mean to tell us ! 
that, it we discover a human mite aban- 1L=- 
doned on someone's doorstep, and take it 
to the Foundling Hospital, it will not be 
admitted?" We do. "Why, then, call the 
place a Foundling Hospital ? M Thereby 
hangs a deeply interesting story — a story 
of human wrong, of human suffering ; of 
evil, of good ; of sorrow, of succour — a 
veritable world's story, focussing the largt:- 
souled sympathy of mankind, the weakness 
and trust of woman, and the treachery and 
infidelity of man. 

The institution owes its origin to one of 
Nature's noblemen ; it is a monument 
equally to the head and the heart of Cap- 
tain Thomas Coram. Captain Coram, in no 
ordinary sense of the word, went about 
doing good. His life was made up of 
attempts to improve something or some- 
body. Early in the eighteenth century, 
he used, in his walks between the City, 
where he had business, and Rotherhithe, 
where he lived, to constantly come across 
young children left by the wayside, " some- 
times alive, sometimes dead, and some- 
times dying." In other countries such 
children would _ be taken up by the State, 
and cared for ; in England nothing of the 
sort had ever been attempted, or even 

perhaps dreamed of. Captain Coram's 
heart was touched by surely the most piti- 
able sight in creation, and to touch Captain 
Coram's heart was to set the machinery 
of his resourceful brain in motion. He 
rightly considered such exposure of infant 
humanity a disgrace to civilisation, and 
proceeded to enlist the services of the high- 
placed and the large-hearted in the cause. 
For seventeen long years he laboured 
against adverse circumstances, until, in 
1739, his efforts were rewarded bv a charter 
authorising the founding of an institution 
" for the maintenance and education of ex- 
posed and deserted young children." 

A fine statue of Captain Coram, by W. 
C. Marshall, R.A., and a stone tablet to his 
memory, placed on the wall of the arcade 
in front of the building, are the first things 
to catch the visitor's eye. Coram lived, we 
are told, to be eighty-four, and died '! poor 
in worldly estate, rich in good works." 
To help the new-born infant, he brought 
his grey hairs, if not in sorrow, at least in 
poverty to the grave. Like so many other 
benefactors of mankind, in striving to alle- 
viate distress, this ,f indefatigable schemist " 




forgot himself, and ha J he, in his devotion, 
not had friends who gave more regard to 
his material needs than he gave himself, 
he might have .closed his eyes to mundane 
affairs in want by the wayside, even as the 
objects of his solicitude opened theirs. 

It is not necessary to go here at length 
into the early mistakes made, or to 
describe how the institution failed of 
the purpose which the founder had 
in view. It was intended by him to 
meet the necessities of deserted 
motherhood ; it came, in the middle 
of the last century, to be a recep- 
tacle for all the babes whom worth- 
less parents did not care to keep. A 
basket was hung outside the gates of 
the Hospital. On the first day 1 1 7 
children were left in it, and a lucra- 
tive trade sprung up among tramps 
who, for a consideration, carried the 
little ones from all parts of England 
to the Hospital. In less than four 
years, 14,934 infants were thus dis- 
posed of. 

These "regiments of infantry," as a 
waggish commentator called thorn, 
overwhelmed the resources of the in- 
stitution, and it is not surprising to 
learn that, from various causes, not 

more than 4,000 of the 14,934 survived. 
The indiscriminate admission of children 
had to be abolished. Later, it was decided 
to receive children for money t but this 
step resulted in other abuses, and we have 
the authority of the admirable account of 
the Hospital, compiled by a former secre- 
tary, and revised by the present, Mr. W. 
S. Wintle — a work which 
may be purchased for half a 
crown, and is well worth 
attentive study— for stating 
that, since January, iSoi, no 
child has been received into 
the Hospital, either directly 
ot indirectly, with any sum 
of money, large or small. 

To-day the practice is for 
the mother to take the babe 
before it is twelve months old 
to the Hospital, to make her 
statement before the authori- 
ties, and to leave the child to 
their care absolutely. She 
must be poor, she must be 
anxious to regain her good 
name, and no woman who 
petitions that her child may 
be admitted to the Hospital 
stands a chance of relief if she cannot 
prove that she has led a life of propriety 
previous to her misfortune. This point 
cannot be too strongly borne in mind. As 
the Reverend Sydney Smith, one of the 
preachers of the Foundling Chapel put it : — 
" No child drinks of our cup or eats of our 




bread whose reception, upon the whole, is 
not certain to be more conducive than per- 
nicious to the interests of religion and good 
morals, We hear no mother whom it would 
not be merciless and shocking to'turn away ; 
we exercise the trust reposed in us with' a 
trembling and sensitive conscience ; we do 
not think it enough to say, ' This woman 
is wretched, and betrayed, and forsaken ' ; 
but we calmly reflect if it be expedient that 
her tears should be dried up, her loneliness 
sheltered, and all her wants receive the min- 
istration of charity." No instance of a 
mother going to the 
bad after she has 
been relieved by the 
Governors of the 
Foundling Hospital 
has, we believe, ever 
come to notice ! 

The general pub- 
lic knows most of 
the Foundling Hos- 
pital from a visit to 
the chapel on - a 
Sunday morning. 
Anyone who is pre- 
pared to drop a 

silver coin into the plate at 
the door is admitted. The 
spectacle is impressive. In 
the galleries at the west end 
of the chapel, on either side 
of the organ, are seated some 
five hundred boys and girls, 
better behaved probably than 
any other considerable num- 
ber of young people who 
appear in church regularly 
every Sunday. Their happy 
faces are perhaps a greater 
pleasure to gaze upon than 
their healthy voices are to 
listen to. Divine service over, 
at one o'clock they march into 
their respective dining-rooms, 
the boys being in one wing 
of the building and the girls 
in the other. Grace in the 
former is sung to the accom- 
paniment of a cornet, which 
one of the boys plays. When 
they take their places at table, 
the spectator will find none 
lacking in appetite for the 
simple honest repast On the 
opposite side of the building 
the girls are doing not less 
justice to themselves and 
those who have provided and prepared the 

The scene on any Sunday morning in the 
year 1891 is precisely that which Charles 
Dickens described in " No Thoroughfare," 
a quarter of a century ago : — M There are 
numerous lookers-on at the dinner, as the 
custom is. There are two or three gover- 
nors, whole families from the congregation, 
smaller groups of both 
sexes, individual stragglers 
of various degrees. The 
bright autumnal sun 

^*- Origir»Ufci#i. "J™Jfe 
' UN I Vb H b l V uh M lL h^AN 



strikes freshly into the wards, and the heavy- 
framed windows through which it shines, 
and the panelled walls on which it strikes, 
are such windows and such walls as 
pervade Hogarth's pictures. The girls* 
refectory (including that of the younger 
children) is the principal attraction. Neat 
attendants silently glide about the orderly 
and silent tables ; the lookers-on move or 
stop as the fancy takes them ; comments in 
whispers on face such a number from such 
a window are not infrequent ; many of the 
faces are of a character to fix attention. 
Some of the visitors from the outside public 
are accustomed visitors. They have esta- 
blished a speaking acquaintance with the 
occupants of particular seats at the tables, 

interesting of the classes is that of the 
infants. On the day on which we visit the 
Foundling for the especial purpose of this 
paper, they are turned out of their ordinary 
room, and are squatted on the floor of 
another in sections before blackboards, and 
with slates in their laps. They are the 
veriest, chubbiest urchins imaginable, and, as 
we approach, three or four of them turn their 
smiling faces up to ours. They evidently 
expect to be spoken to, and we ask them 
what they are doing ? 

,( Writtn'," answers a babe of a very few 

" Writing what ? " we ask, 

"Good," is the reply, as a little finger 

points to the blackboard on which the word 

is written in 

bold characters. 

"And are you 

good ? " 

" Es, " and 
with a "That's 
right ! ,1 we pat 
the baby cheek, 
and think many 
things. Poor 


and halt at these points to 
bend down and say a word 
or two. It is no disparage- 
ment to their kindness that 
those points are generally 
points where personal at- 
tractions are. The monotony of the long 
spacious rooms and the double lines of 
faces is agreeably relieved by these inci- 
dents, although so slight." 

There is not much to see in the class- 
rooms, which will not be fully" conveyed in 
our illustrations. As we enter the boys' 
room, we are momentarily startled by the 
shuffle of feet as every boy rises respect- 
fully in his place. Not being professional 
school inspectors, such honours are not 
often accorded us. Resuming their seats, 
the class work goes on as at anv ordinary 
school. So with the girls. The most 

little mites, and yet happy withal ! Mother- 
less, fatherless, friendless, and yet inmates 
of an institution which is not such a 
bad substitute for father, mother, and 
friends. What would they be but for it ? 
Recruits perchance in the ranks of shame 
into which their mothers might have 
drifted. And their mothers ? Who knows but 
that somewhere out in the world, women are 
living, and working, and sleeping ; dream- 
ing, wondering how fares the helpless 
mortal for whose existence they are respon- 
sible, for whom they still bear a love which 
no barrier of separation ian obliterate? 




From the schoolrooms let us go to the 
museum, where are stored some valuables 
and many curiosities. Pictures by Hogarth 

and others line the walls, and it is '. - •• 
an interesting item of information 
that the Royal Academy of Arts, to 
which the fashionable world flocks to-day, 
was suggested to the founders by the 
crowds of people who in the last century 
went to see the pictures exhibited at 
the Foundling Hospital. Artists rallied 
strongly to the support of the insti- 
tution, which also enlisted the services of 
Handel, who devoted his " Messiah " to its 
benefit, and presented the organ which is 
still in use. Lovers of art history and art 
treasures will find much on the walls and in 
the show-cases of the Foundling Hospital 
to gratify them. What will attract the 
majority of people more, however, than 
Handel's gifts, or Hogarth's or Sir Joshua 
Reynolds 1 canvases, are the tokens which 
it early became necessary to stipulate 
should be left with the child for the pur- 
pose, if need be, of identification. All 
sorts of things were left, from a coin or a 
key to a trinket or a piece of ribbon. Hearts 
and wedding rings are numerous, the 
former, no doubt, emblems more often than 
not of broken hearts, the lattCT eloquent 
of disappointed hopes. In some instances 
the token took the shape of verse. 

What becomes of the inmates of the 
Hospital when the time arrives to turn 

them out into the world to gain a living? 
The boys, at the age of fourteen, are 
usually apprenticed to some trade. A 
great many of them, however, who have 
formed part of the juvenile band at the 
Hospital, join the bands of the army and 
navy. In this position they seem to do 
especially well. Testi- 
monials of gratitude 
from lads brought up 
at the Hospital are not 
wanting. One is a hand- 
some Chinese vase, bear- 
ing the inscription : 
(i Presented to the 
Foundling Hospital by 
George Ross, Corporal, 
Band, 74th Highlanders, 
as a small token of grati- 
tude for the years of 
childhood spent in the 
institution. Hong Kong, 
15th February, 1879." 
Another is an inkstand 
made of Irish bog oak, 
and was " Presented to 
the Governors of the 
Foundling Hospital by 
Corporal Samuel Reid, 
a foundling, of Her Ma- 
jesty's Regiment Military Train, as a token 
of deep gratitude. April 26, 1868," 

The girls go into domestic service, and 
with initial care make excellent servants. 
In these days, when good domestics are so 
difficult to get, the demand for foundling 

Original fr-f 

2 HIS 


girls is much greater than the supply. 
Whatever the deprivations of the children 
may be on account of the want of individual 
motherly love, the real hardships of the 
lives of the girls begin when they leave the 
Hospital. They are educated in everything 

save worldly knowledge. Where an ordi 
nary girl runs errands for her parents, and 
becomes a little woman by the time she 
reaches her teens, the foundling girls re- 
main in absolute 
ignorance of how 
to purchase any 
single article, or 
transact the sim- 
plest affairs outside 
the home. This 
is one drawback. 
Another and sad- 
der is when, stand- 
ing on the thres- 
hold of the great 
world, they realise 
that they are not 
as the majority of 
other girls are. 
They go to service, 
and they have not 
a friend of any kind 
to see or to talk 
about. Do what it 
will, the Hospital 
cannot supply the 
place of relatives, 
and, however much 
her origin may be 
screened from her 
fellow- servants, 
in all probability 

the time comes when the latter say : "How 
strange we never hear you speak of your 
father, or your mother, or your sister, or 
your brother." Then the lonely maiden 
invents little 
stories and tells 
fibs, which the 
most truthful 
among us may par- 
don, respecting the 
father and mother 
who are dead, or 
whatever other ex- 
planation may oc- 
cur to her. If the 
inquisitive world 
only knew what 
pain its thoughtless 
inquiries may 
cause ! 

A visit to the 
Foundling Hos- 
pital will afford 
food for many an 
hour's reflection. 
We are often 
urged to recognise 
woman's equality 
with man. The 
Foundling Hos- 
pital is a pathetic 
reminder of her 
eternal inequality. 
Original from 

A Perilous Wooing. 

From the Norwegian ov Bjornstjekne Bjornson. 

f DjuKNSTJEKN:' I>Ji>I;nm>n, ihu fn.-l and ^rcuoi unto which Norway has produced, was born at Quikeri, 
in North Norway, on the 8lh of December, 1832, his father being a Lutheran country pastor. At an early 
age he begun to write, and a two years' residence at Copenhagen, to which city he removed at twenty-lour, and 
where he studied the chief Danish writers, confirmed him in his resolve 10 create a literature in Norway. He 
was only twenty-six when he assumed the directorship of the theatre at Bergen, where he produced play after 
play of national importance. He wrote also several novels, of which " Arne '" and " In God's Way ' are, per- 
haps, the best known to English readers. The following little story skowi as well as any of his long romances 
his peculiar and original characteristics — his faithful yei "poetic painting of the life and the wild scenery of the 
Norwegian Alps.] 

ROM the time that Asian g 
was quite grown up there 
was 110 longer any peace or 
quiet at Husaby. In fact, all 
the handsomest young fellows 
in the village did nothing 
but fight and quarrel night after night ;and 
it was always worst on Saturday nights, 
Aslang's father, old Canute Husaby, never 
went to bed on those nights without keep- 
ing on at least his leather breeches, and 
laying a good stout birch stick on the bed 
beside him. " If I have such a pretty 
daughter," said old Canute, " I must know 
how to take caTe of her." 

Thor Nesset was only the son of a poor 
cottager, and yet folks said that it was he 
who went oftenest to visit the farmer's 
daughter at Husaby. Of course old Canute 
was not pleased to hear this. He said it 
was not true ; that, at any rate, he had 

never seen him there. Still they smiled > 
and whispered to each other that if he only 
had thoroughly searched the hay-loft t 
whither Aslang had many an errand, he 
would have found Thor there. 

Spring came, and Aslang went up the 
mountain with the cattle. And now, when 
the heat of the day hung over the valley, the 
rocks rose cool and clear through the sun's 
misty rays, the cow-bells tinkled, the shep- 
herd's dog barked, Aslang sang her "jodel " 
songs, and blew the cow-horn, all the young 
men felt their hearts grow sore and heavy 
as they gazed upon her beauty. And on 
the first Saturday evening one after the 
other they crept up the hill. But they 
came down again quicker than they had 
gone up, for at the top stood a man, who 
kept guard, receiving each one who came 
up with such a warm reception that he all 
his life long remembered the words that 




accompanied the action : " Come up here 
again, and there will be still more in store 
for you ! " 

All the young fellows could arrive but 
at one conclusion, that there was only one 
man in the whole parish who had such 
fists, and that man was Thor Nesset. And 
alt the rich farmers' daughters thought it 
was too bad that this cottager's son should 
stand highest in Asking Husaby's favour. 

Old Canute thought the same when he 
heard about it all, and said that if there 
were no one else who could check him he 
would do it himself. Now Canute was cer- 
tainly getting on in years ; still, although 
he was past sixty, he often enjoyed a. good 
wrestling match with his trldest son when- 
ever time indoors fell heavy on his hands. 

There was but one path up to the moun- 
tain belonging to Husaby, and it went 
straight through the farm garden. Next 
Saturday evening, as Thor was on his way 
to the mountain, creeping carefully across 
the yard, hurrying as soon as he was well 
past the farm buildings — a man suddenly 
rushed at him. 

" What do you want with mt ? 8 asked 
Thor, and hit him such a blow in the face 
that sparks danced before his eyes. 

il You will soon learn that," said someone 
else behind him, and gave him a great blow 
in the back of his neck. That was Asian g's 

u And here's the third man," said Old 
Canute, and attacked him also. 

The greater the danger the greater was 
Thor's strength. He was supple as a willow, 
and hit out right manfully ; he dived and 
he ducked ; whenever a blow fell it missed 
him ; and when none expected it he would 
deal a good one. He stooped down, he 
sprang on one side, but for all that he got 
a terrible thrashing. Old Canute said 
afterwards that " he had never fought with 
a braver fellow." They kept it up till blood 
began to flow, then Canute cried out : 
" Stop ! " Then he added in a croaking 
tone : " If you can get up here next Satur- 
day, in spite of Canute Husaby and his men, 
the girl shall be yours ! " 

Thor dragged himself home as best he 
could, and when he reached the cottage 
went straight to bed. There was a great 
deal of talk about the fight up on Husaby- 
hill, but everyone said, "Why did he go 
there ? " Only one person did not say so, 
and that was Ashing. Shu had been expect- 
ing Thor that Saturday evening, but when 

-HK "'""Original from 



she heard what had happened between him 
and her father, she sat down and cried 
bitterly, and said to herself, " If I may not 
have Thor, I shall never have a happy day 
again in this world/' 

Thor stayed in his bed all Sunday, and 
when Monday came he felt he must stay on 
where he was. Tuesday came, and it was 
a very lovely day. It had rained in the 
night ; the hills 
looked so fresh and 
green, the window 
was open, sweet 
odours were wafted 
in, the cow-bells 
were tinkling on the 
mountain, and far 
up above someone 
was" jodling." . . . 
Truly, if it had not 
been for his mother 
who was sitting in 
the room, he could 
have cried. Wed- 
nesday came, and 
still he stayed in 
bed ; on Thursday, 
though, he began 
to think about the 
possibility of being 
well again by Satur- 
day, and Friday 
found him on his 
legs again. Then 
he thought of what 
Asking's father had 
said : " If you can 
get up to her next 
Saturday without 
being stopped by 
Canute and his men, 
the girl shall be 
yours." Over and 
over again he looked 
up at Husaby farm : 
"I shall never see 
another Christmas," 
thought Thor. 

As before men- 
tioned, there was but one path up to 
Husaby-hill ; but surely any strong, able 
fellow must be able to get to it, even though 
the direct way were barred to him. For 
instance, if he were to row round the point 
yonder and fasten his boat at the one side, 
it might be possible to climb up there, 
although it was so very steep that the 
goats had great difficulty in climbing it, and 
they are not usually afraid of mountain work. 

Silt LuiJKI.Li 

Saturday came, and Thor went out early 
in the morning. The day was most beauti- 
ful ; the sun shone so brightly that the very 
bushes seemed alive. Up on the mountain 
many voices were " jodling," and there was 
much blowing of horns. When evening 
came he was sitting at his cottage door 
watching the steaming mist rise up on the 
hills. He looked upwards — all was quiet ; 
he looked over to- 
wards Husaby farm 
— and then he 
jumped into his 
boat and row r ed 
away round the 

Aslang sat before 
the hut ; her day's 
work was done ; she 
was thinking Thor 
would not come that 
evening, and that 
therefore many 
others might come 
instead, so she un- 
fastened the dog, 
and, without saying 
anything, walked 
further on. She sat 
down so that she 
could see across the 
valley, but the mist 
was rising there and 
prevented her look- 
ing down. Then 
she chose another 
place, and without 
thinking more 
about it, sat down 
so that she looked 
towards the side 
where lay the fjord ; 
it seemed to bring 
peace to her soul 
when she could gaze 
far away across the 

As she sat there 
the fancy struck her 
that she was inclined to sing, so she chose a 
song with "long-drawn notes," and far and 
wide it sounded through the mountains- She 
liked to hear herself sing, so she began over 
again when the first verse \vas ended. But 
when she had sung the second, it seemed to 
her as though someone answered from far 
down below. '' Dear me, what can that 
be? " thought Aslang. She stepped forward 
to the edge, and 'wined her arms round a 



slender birch which hung trembling over 
the precipice, and looked down. But she 
could see nothing ; the fjord lay there calm 
and at rest ; not a single bird skimmed the 
water. So Aslang sat herself down again, 
and again she began to sing. Once more 
came the answering voice in the same tones 
and nearer than the first time. (t That sound 
was no echo, whatever it may be." Aslang 
jumped to her feet and again leaned over 
the cliff. And there down below, at the 
foot of the rocky wall, she saw a boat 
fastened. It looked like a tiny nutshell, 
for it was very far down. She looked again 
and saw a fur cap, and under it the figure 
of a man, climbing up the steep and barren 

"Who can it be?" Aslang asked her- 
self ; and, letting go the birch, she stepped 
back. She dared not answer her own 
question, but well she knew who it was. 
She flung herself down on the greensward, 
seized the grass with both hands as though 
it were she who dared not loose her hold 
for fear of falling. But the grass came up 
by the roots ; she screamed aloud, and dug 
her hands deeper and deeper into the soil. 
She prayed to God to help him ; but then 

it struck her that this feat of Thor's would 
be called "tempting Providence," and, 
therefore, he could not expect help from 

" Only just this once ! " she prayed. 
"Hear my prayer just this one time, and 
help him ! " Then she threw her arms 
round the dog, as though it wereThor whom 
she was clasping, and rolled herself on the 
grass beside it. 

The time seemed to her quite endless. 

Suddenly the dog began to bark. " Bow, 
wow ! " said he to Aslang, and jumped 
upon her. And again, " Wow, wow ! " 
then over the edge of the cliff a coarse, 
round cap came to view, and — Thor was in 
her arms ! 

He lay there a whole minute, and neither 
of them was capable of uttering a syllable. 
And when they did begin to talk there was 
neither sense nor reason in anything they 

But when old Canute Husaby heard of it 
he uttered a remark which had both sense 
and reason. Bringing his fist down on the 
table with a tremendous crash, " The lad 
deserves her," he cried ; " the girl shall be 
his [ " 

Original from 

Wild Animal Training. 

interest The triumph of human skill, 
courage, and will over the immense, law- 
less brute force which lies in the muscles 
and sinews of half a dozen full-grown 
tigers and lions is a fine thing to witness, 
and has the fascination which all fine 
things have. 

The Romans, among a great many other 
things, were great animal tamers. But 
animal training among them never rose to 
laTge proportions until, ripe and rotten, the 
Empire was nearing its fali. Then the 
public became luxuriously blase\ and no 
longer cared to stare all day at a constant 
succession of bloody combats in the arena. 
They were no whit less barbarous in their 
tastes than their fathers, but they wanted 
variety and new sensations. Now an old 
Roman Emperor was always 
popular so long as he gave 'ghedaYta 
his people good shows in j,„ ,,„ „ „ 
the arena, and nothing dfe- €K ^ UQS Wot€l ' 
respectful was ever said of a 
sovereign who provided plenty of fights, 
of novel features, no matter what else he 
might do. So that when fights, and 
nothing but fights, began to wax dull, the 
people of Rome were treated to perform- 
ances of trained wild beasts, and, it would 
seem, co very great performances. The 
profession of animal tamer became a large 
one, and of some consideration. Horo- 
scopes exist which were cast in the third 
and fourth centuries of the Christian era in 
which prediction is made that the "native" 
shall become a trainer of tigeTs and ele- 

The existence of tame lions and tigers 
was a circumstance which Roman extrava- 
gance soon took advantage of, Mark 
Antony rode about Rome in a chariot 
drawn by a pair of lions. Domitian had 

H E taming of a lion that accompanied the hunt, and 

large wild ani- acted as a retriever — a lion that would 

mals, and their gambol with hares, and allow the little 

training to jump animals to chase it. Martial wrote a 

through hoops poem in praise of this gentle lion; but 

and submit to an ungentle lion, who hadn't the same 

similar ignomi- educational advantages, broke the front of 

nies, is a thing the cage one day in the arena, and left the 

which everybody Emperor's pet dead. Berenice, Queen of 

regards with Egypt, too, had a tame lion, which sat at 

some amount of table with her and licked her cheeks 

us hope Her Majesty liked it. But the 
ladies in those days preferred, as a rule t 
tame birds to lions ; and Pliny tells us that 
a trained nightingale cost as much as a 
human slave. But when we read a little 
more, and find that Mucianus talks of an 
elephant that could write Greek, we feel 
a certain want of confidence in these 
ancients and their stories. 

In our own times and in this country 
wild animal taming has been practised with 
very considerable success. In the second 
decade of the present century popular 
attention was directed to the matter by a 
performance of certain animals bred byontf 
Atkins. These were hybrid cubs, the off- 
spring of a lion and a tigress, and the exhi- 
bition of the happy family at Ducrow's 


ginalfronY* irECHtLK '' 



circus was a very paying novelty. The 
trainer would lie in the cage between the 
lion and the tigress, while the cubs strolled 
about over him, and romped among them- 
selves. Then the man would lie on the 
lion and the tigress on the man. 

A little after this Wombwell announced 
a great attraction in a dog and lion fight. 
Such a thing would soon be interfered with 
legally nowadays, but then, although it 
made a great stir, nobody thought it parti- 
cularly barbarous. The lion "Nero"' was 
confronted by six bull -dogs, But Nero 
was apathetic and peace- 
ful, and the dogs were 
very frightened, and the 
H fight" was a fiasco. 
Whereupon on another 
evening another lion, 
" Wallace," was pro- 
duced, with six more 
bull - dogs. This time 
the lion was in a worse 
temper, and the dogs a 
little more aggressive ; 
soon all the half-dozen 
were killed or 
maimed, and 
Wallace was 
stalking about 
the cage with 
the last in his 
mouth, just as a 
cat carries a rat. 
trainer at this 
time was "Man- 
chester Jack," a 
great celebrity in 
his way, and a 
man of unusual 

No more lion 
and dog fights 
took place after 
"Wallace" had 
made the experi- 
ment so expen- 
sive in the matter of dogs, but various 
"combats" of a more or less bogus de- 
scription were leading features for a long 
time in wild animal performances. A sen- 
sational M man and tiger fight " went about 
the country, and drew much money at fairs 
until it became whispered that the M tiger " 
was a big dog sewn up in a false skirt. 
" Macomo, the African Lion King " (who 
was really a black sailor engaged in an 
emergency), had a " lion-hunt" at Manders's 

menagerie, in which he chevied the animals 
around the cage. He was a bold man, and 
upon one occasion entered a cage in which 
two targe strange tigers were fighting 
desperately, and although himself attacked 
and badly wounded, succeeded in beating 
them into submission with his whip. 

It was in imitating Macomq's M lion- 
hunt " that his successor at Manders's, 
Macarthy — an Irishman who called himself 
Massarti — met his death. Unfortunately, 
it seems only too certain that Macarthy, in 
this, his last appearance, which was at 
Bolton, was not quite so sober as he should 
have been, and that, if he had been a little 
more sober, it might not have been his last 
appearance. Macarthy laboured under what 

would seem to be the fatal disadvantage of 
having only one arm ; nevertheless, he had 
great command over his animals, although 
there seems little doubt that fear of his 
violence was at the bottom of their obe- 
dience, and that they took a signal ven- 
geance at the first opportunity. He lost his 
aTm in a tiger's mouth, and the public be- 




Jieved that it was in course of his training 
operations. But those who wera behind the 
scenes knew very well that when the acci- 
dent occurred Macarthy had no business 
near the animals at all ; being, in fact, the 
night watchman, and having surreptitiously 
introduced certain friends to the cages after 
the show was shut. 

Crockett was another famous tamer. He 
had been one of Sanger's bandsmen, but 
took to lion-taming at Astley's. One night 
all the lions got loose and had a glorious 
celebration all to themselves in the theatre, 
wandering over the auditorium, and break- 
ing whatever it seemed desirable to break, 
beside killing an unfortunate keeper. 
Crockett was sent for In all haste, came, and 
entered the theatre armed with — a switch ! 
With this he coolly proceeded to drive all 
the animals back into their proper quarters, 
shut them all up, and went home again to 
bed without a scratch. 

When the lion-king fever was at its height, 
it occurred to the proprietor of Hilton's 
menagerie that the next sensation ought to 
be a lion-queen, and accordingly his niece be- 
came the first. She was followed by others, 
but the taste for female performers received 
a check in 1850, when Miss Blight was 
killed by a tiger at Womb well's. Never- 
theless, among those whose depraved taste 
leads them to wit- 
ness wild -beast 
merely to gloat 
over the tamer's 
danger, lion- 
queens have since 
been popular. 

But among the 
famous Hon-tamers 
of this century 
Van Amburgh and 
John Cooper hold 
the highest places. 
Van Amburgh was 
a Dutchman, with 
a fine, well-built 
figure, who came 
to London just 
before the begin- 
ning of the pre- 
sent reign. Sir 
Edwin Landseer 
(who was only 
Mr. Landseer at 
the time) painted 
a picture repre- 
senting Van Am- 

, ■ . 


'1 *\ 


V <*'• / 

\ lfc» 

p^ps^ : 



ygflt A 

burgh in the midst of his animals, and this 
was exhibited at the Royal Academy. A 
better advertisement for the tamer could 
hardly be conceived, and soon Van Am- 
burgh's performances became more fashion- 
able than any animal performances before. 
The great Duke of Wellington once asked 
Van Amburgh if he had ever experienced 
a fear of his lions, to which the tamer 
answered that he never had, and, further, 
that if ever he did, or if he suspected that 
the animals had ceased to fear Jtt'm t he 
would give up the business at once. Van 
Amburgh made a moderate fortune, and 
died peacefully in his bed, although more 
than one newspaper paragraph had reported 
his death by claws and teeth, at intervals 
during his professional career. But a pre- 
mature obituary notice in a local paper 
short of copy is a sort of thing which a lion- 
tamer must expect now and again. 

Mr. John Cooper divides with 'Van 
Amburgh the honour of king of lion-kings 
— indeed one would be doing little injustice 
to the memory of the brave Dutchman in 
placing Cooper alone quite at the top of the 
tree, the Royal Academy picture being Van 
Amburgh's great claim to remembrance. 
Mr. Cooper has not been killed by his 
animals, of whom he has trained his thou- 
sands r neither has he died peacefully in his 
bed. He is alive 
and well at this 
moment, fifty-one 
years of age, al- 
though he scarcely 
looks it, and cap- 
able, one would 
imagine, of living 
quite fifty-one 
years more. We 
have had the ad- 
vantage of some 
personal acquaint- 
ance with Mr. 
CoopeT, and pur 
pose to set forth 
some incidents of 
his extraordinary 
career, and some 
of his own opinions 
and impressions in 
the matter of his 

He is a man of 

about the middle 

height, stout and 

powerful of limb, 

■w«n. Or kindl y and in tc ui - 



gent of face, and, it may seem strangely, 
remarkably gentle and quiet of manner. 
He loves his animals, and although he has 
retired upon a competence, cannot rest in- 
active, and still, from time to time as the 
inclination seizes him, goes among the 
tigers and lions again — for amusement. 

As may be assumed in the case of any 
person attaining such eminence in a par- 
ticular calling, Mr. Cooper has an inborn 
genius and aptitude for his profession. 
From his very birth animals have been his 
passion, and he was promoted from white 
mice and rabbits to larger game at a very 
early age, actually becoming a lion-tamer 
at twelve ! At ten years of age, having 

possessed an awkward piece of stock in the 
person of a very large and very savage lion. 
Nobody could approach this animal, and as 
he made a regular amusement of breaking 
through the sides and back of his cage, he 
was always secured by a strong collar and 
chain, which was let down through the 
roof. At Leeds, one day, he managed to 
get loose from this collar, and at once 
began high festival by breaking up first 
the fittings, and then the side of his resi- 
dence. All the attendants stood helplessly 
by, unable to do anything. But young 
CoopeT — who, of course, at his age, was 
never allowed in any cage, let alone this 
one — without a word to anybody, quietly 
went round behind, and was next 
seen inside the bars. The lookers- 
on were terrified, and Mrs. Batty 
fainted outright. But the little 

lost both parents, little John Cooper 
ran away from Birmingham, his 
native town, with Batty's Circus. 
Now one of the Battys was pro- 
prietor of a menagerie, and the lad's 
strong inclination towards everything to 
do with animals soon led to his being 
transferred to this service from the circus, 
and being apprenticed to the business of an 
animal showman. 

The first occasion of the many on which 
he distinguished himself— after losing the 
top of a finger at the bars of a wolf-cage — 
took place when he was twelve. The show 

boy calmly walked up to the big lion, and 
fixed on his collar again, coming out un- 
scratched. When Mr. Batty arrived upon 
the scene— he had been out on business— 
his first impulse was to spank his appren- 
tice for fool hard in ess, and this impulse he 
acted upon. But, on consideration, and 
when it became known that the lad really 
could handle the animals well and fearlessly, 





the proprietor's attitude changed, and at 
once all Hatty's bills announced, in the most 
uproariously large letters possible, the 
appearance, nightly, of " John Cooper, 
aged 12, the youngest lion-tamer in the 

With Batty's Mr. Cooper stayed till of 
age, and, after three years with Mrs. 
Edmonds's menagerie, began a long Con- 
tinental career by accepting an offer of Herr 
Renz, a well-known Germaii showman. For 
seventeen years he wandered about the 
Continent, with one menagerie and another, 
until he knew Europe all over as well as his 
native Birmingham. His reputation on the 
Continent was, and still is, immense — 
indeed, perhaps greater than that in his own 
country. In the first place, the best part of 
his professional life has been spent in Con- 
tinental countries, and in the second, wild 
beast performances, for some unexplained 
reason or another, are, and always have 
been, more popular in those countries than 
in England. The 
English lion- 
tamer was every- 
where treated like 
a prince, and in 
the course of his 
travels made the 
personal acquaint- 
ance of " all the 
crowned heads " 
— in a much more 
intimate sense 
than falls to the 
lot of most show- 
men. Victor 
Emmanuel struck 
up quite a per- 
sonal friendship 
With Cooper, and 
the tamer always 
speaks of that fine 
old King with the 
very highest ad- 
miration and re- 
spect. The King 
was a great lover 
of animals, and 
had a very fine 
private collection 
of his own. 
Cooper's animals were generally his own 
property, and, a fine litter of Hon cubs 
being born while he was showing at Flo- 
rence, he presented the newcomers to the 
King, who was delighted at the acquisi- 
tion, and invited Mr. Cooper to inspect 

his own collection. These animals were 
of course in a perfectly wild state ; and 
when the tamer expressed his willingness to 
go among them at once, and, if he pleased, 
perform with them, the King's astonish- 
ment was great. Go among them, however, 
Cooper did, and handled them as they had 
never been handled before. At the' con- 
clusion of the performance, the King shook 
the tamer most heartily by the hand, and 
having heard that he was a smoker, pre- 
sented him with a handsome pipe from his 
own mouth. This pipe is now Mr. Cooper's 
most treasured possession. After this he 
became quite an honoured visitor at the 
Royal palaces. 

Not long after his departure from Flo- 
rence, while working northward, the tamer 
experienced a run of ill-luck in the loss by 
death, in quick succession, of several of 
his most valued lions, and this loss was 
repaired, as soon as it came to the ears 
of Victor Emmanuel, by a present of four 
of the finest and largest lions froi" 
the King's collection. Nor did 
Victor Emmanuel's generosity end 
here : camels, a bear, and two ele- 
phants following as occasional pre- 
sents in after years. These proofs 
] of the regard of // Re Galantuomo 
Mr. Cooper values higher than any 
that he has re- 
ceived, although 
they are not the 
only Royal gifts 
which came to his 
share. Among 
other things, there 
is a very splendid 
gold lion in the 
form of a brooch, 
studded with dia- 
monds, the pre- 
sent, accompanied 
by an autograph 
letter, of the 
Queen of Holland. 
The old German 
Emperor William 
took great per- 
sonal interest in 
SurltT" * Hj,NDSOME P,FE FROH the performances 
at Berlin, and wit- 
nessed them again and again, as also did 
Prince Bismarck. 

At the time of the Court performances 
at St. Petersburg, which were especially 
encouraged by the present Czar, then the 
Czarewitch, «.n awkward accident occurred. 




The performance had been given, and 
Cooper had shut the cages and retired, 
when an officer of high rank, a member of 
the suite of the Czarewitch, approached 
the cage, and induced the attendant — with 
something from his pocket — to let him slip 
aside the shutters. His silly vanity, how- 
ever, quickly met its reward, for no sooner 
had he come within sufficient distance of 
the bars than a lioness reached forth her 
paw, and so mauled and tore his arm that it 
had to be amputated. In such a country as 
Russia an accident of this sort was like to 
prove an unpleasant thing for the innocent 
tamer, and, while an inquiry was being 
held, Cooper had to leave the province. 
The wounded officer, however, was so ob- 
viously to blame for his own misfortune, 
that the matter was soon cleared up; and a 
very severe Royal rebuke was administered 
him, after which the tamer carried on his 
performances as usual. The officer was 
some years afterwards sent to Siberia, being 
found to be connected with a Nihilist orga- 

In England, while performing at the 
Crystal Palace, Mr. Cooper became ac- 
quainted with the late Prince Imperial, who. 
was completely fascinated by the wonderful 
command the tamer exhibited over animals 
which no othtr man dare approach, and 
who badly wanted to be allowed to enter 
the cage himself. '* I wouldn't allow you to 
go into that cage, sir," said Cooper, " for all 
France itself ! " 

The lions whose claws ended the career 
of Macarthy at Bolton afterwards killed 
another trainer, named Lucas, in Paris. 
They had been bought by an Englishman, 
a banker in Madrid, who financed and ran a 
menagerie. Lucas was the trainer, and 
this unfortunate man was mauled to death 
while showing in Paris. It is characteristic 
of the man that, never having seen these 
dangerous animals before, Mr. John Cooper 
put them through a long and severe per- 
formance a day or two after Lucas's death, 
on the occasion of a benefit arranged for 
the dead man's widow and family. Cooper's 
opinion is that poor Lucas never had the 
animals fully under control — at all events 
never acquired that complete mastery of 
them which a lion-tamer must have. 

It must not be supposed that Mr. Cooper 
has come through all these years of daily 
and hourly peril unscathed ; and it is in- 
structive to observe that even in so excep- 
tional a case as his, where animals seem to 
have no will but that of their master, num- 

berless claws and teeth have left their marks 
on the trainer's body from head to foot. 
His hands alone are an index to his profes- 
sion — here a scar and there a scar, there a 
finger bitten short, and here a nail gone. 
The third finger of his left hand is shortened 
by half the top joint, and the nail grows, 
not up from the back of the finger as usual, 
but over the top, and, if allowed to keep 
growing, lengthens down in front of the 
finger, towards the palm. This mishap 
occurred in practice one morning in Italy, 
with a lion who had an especial distaste to 
having his mouth opened to admit the 
head of Mr. Cooper. The trainer took a 
jaw in each hand to "persuade" them 
open, when the lion, with no vicious intent, 
finding his teeth an inch or so apart, 
snapped them together again, with the 
finger between them. Felts leo was sur- 
prised and disgusted, perhaps pained, at the 
disaster, and promptly spat the finger-end 
out, while blood flowed freely from the 
shortened digit over his face till he turned 
his head from under it. Several medical 
students had been admitted to watch the 
practice, and they promptly cauterised the 
wound with a hot iron, and the day's busi- 
ness proceeded as usual. Cooper only 
mentions this incident as contradicting the 
notion often expressed that the taste of 
blood infuriates an animal and rouses his 
passion for more. As an accident, among 
so many others, it is scarcely worth speak- 
ing of — in the trainer's opinion. 
" His most serious mishap occurred at 
Brussels, while Myers's Circus was perform- 
ing there. It was winter, and Cooper's 
lions were dying fast from the effects of the 
severe weather. On the day of the accident 
two new lions, perfectly wild, had arrived 
from Hamburg. Now, it was always one 
of Cooper's boasts that all his training went 
on openly before the eyes of the public, and 
that he could go among untrained animals 
equally well before the public or in private. 
So the new beasts were turned in among 
the others in the evening, and Cooper went 
into the cage. The theatre was full to over- 
flowing, and the audience certainly wit- 
nessed a sensational performance. Scarcely 
had the tamer entered, than one of 
the new lions and one of the old ones began 
a desperate fight. Cooper took his whip 
and started to quell the disturbance. In 
striking at the old lion, however, he 
managed to give the new one a smart cut, 
and the savage beast immediately flew upon 
him, and, planting its claws on his left 



shoulder, tore down all the flesh from the 
shoulder and breast. Raising his right arm 
to drive the lion off, the hand and arm 
were seized by the brute's teeth, and the 
bone laid bare from elbow to wrist. The 
other animals, as of course is their wont, 
were not slow to take advantage of the 
position of affairs, and soon the tamer's leg 
was bitten through and other injuries 
inflicted. It seems scarcely credible that 
during all this the man never for an instant 
lost his presence of mind, and, with all his 
fearful injuries, continued to whip the 
brutes into subjection, and actually suc- 
ceeded in doing so, before making good his 
exit from the cage. 

From this terrible adventure some idea 
may possibly be gained, not only of 
Cooper's extraordinary courage and cool- 
ness, but also of his immense bodily strength 
and vitality — -lion-like in itself. All hope of 
saving the injured arm was at first given up 
— indeed, the mutilations 
might have killed a weaker 
man — but an eminent sur- 
geon from Paris was called 
in, and in three months 
from his lively evening's 
work in Brussels, John 
Cooper was actually in 
the cage again, perform- 
ing as well as ever. The 
lion which first attacked 
him, he is fond of relat- 
ing, by way of vindication 
of the brute's disposition, 
turned out afterwards one 
of the most intelligent 
and faithful animals he 
had ever had to do with, 
if not quite the most so. 

Ask Mr. Cooper to tell 
you all about the "tam- 
ing secrets " which have 
been talked of from time 
to time, and he will smile 
pleasantly. The only se- 
crets ho ever had, he will 
say, are confidence, cool- 
ness, and common sense. 
Many trainers make first 
acquaintance with an 
animal by approaching it 
from outside the bars and f< 
Cooper simply walks into the cage at once. 
Animals are of all sorts and varieties of 
temper and disposition, just as human 
beings are. As a rule, lions are more trust- 
worthy and even-tempered than tigers, 

or such things as hyenas ; but then there 
are ill-tempered lions and good-tempered 
tigers. Again, every go< >d -tempered animal 
has its fits of ill-temper, and the ill-tempered 
beasts are sometimes in a good humour. 
Now this, of course, makes the taming and 
handling of the animals a more uncertain 
and dangerous thing than ever, and it is 
here that the genius of a man like Mr. 
Cooper shows itself. For there is not an 
animal which you might put before him, 
whether a stranger or an old friend, that he 
cannot label, classify, and tell you all about 
at a glance. He will say at once : " This 
Hon is a good- tempered fellow, but he is in 
a bad humour just for a time," or, " That 
tiger is a dangerous beast, but quite safe 
just at present." He is a sort of animal 
physiognomist, and knows what passes 
through a brute's brain almost as well as the 
brute itself. He seems to know what an 
animal will allow and what it will object to, 

mT """""" 

" '^^ by instinct. Most lions like strok- 
ing and fondling, as does an ordinary cat ; 
but then some do not. Each animal has 
its natural aptitude, or the reverse, for par- 
ticular tricks, and part of the trainer's art 
is to discover these peculiarities and keep 
each animal ir^, its otvn "line." Going 




among strange, untrained animals for the 
first time, Mr. Cooper, after friendly over- 
tures, stroking, fondling, and so forth, 
will set them running about, leaping, and 
playing, as the fancy may strike them. 
With unfailing discrimination he thus 
judges each creature's proper "line," and 
encourages its efforts in that direction ; 
this lion is kept going at leaping, that 
tiger at rearing upon its hind legs and 
placing its paws on the tamer's shoulders, 
and so forth. 

Whatever may be said to the contrary, 
there is no shadow of doubt that the tamer 
who is master of his profession, rules his 
charge by fear, but — and this is an immense 
" but," worthy of very large capitals — it is 
not the sort of fear which is engendered by 
brutal whipping and driving. When a 
man first calmly enters a cage of wild 
animals they have an instinctive fear of 
him, and one main object of the trainer's 
art is to keep alive this wholesome feeling 
through all his dealings with them. But 
the influence which this fear gives him 
must be exercised rather through the 
medium of dignified threat than actual 
violence. A cut of the whip is a necessary 
thing on proper occasion, but it needs a 
forbearing discrimination to tell when the 
proper occasion arrives. The whip-cut loses 
its terror if it becomes an every-minute 
affair. Of course it must be remembered 
that with a wise trainer, who loves his 
animals, the animals soon learn to return 
the affection, and this gives colour to the 
"all done by kindness " theory. It is all 
done by kindness — of a wise and severe 
sort. For it must be remembered that with 
all their affection the brutes still remain 
dangerous and treacherous in their nature, 
and variable in their moods. Their love is 
to a large extent a love born of fear, but 
that there is real affection in it is doubtless. 
If Mr. Cooper visits a menagerie nowadays 
where any of his old animals are exhibited, 
they will crowd toward the bars of their 
cages with every expression of recognition 
and welcome. 

His performances have always been of 
the " quiet and superior " order — really a 
more difficult thing than the showy, sen- 
sational, tear-and-fury sort of thing which 
goes down with many vulgar sightseers. 
It has been a maxim with trainers who 
favour the latter sort of performance that 
the man should never take his eyes from 
the animals, and should avoid any position 
but the erect, as involving an almost certain 

attack, and for ordinary trainers the rule is 
doubtless a good one. But Cooper, in his 
perfect control of his charge, was able to 
disregard it most completely. He would 
lie at full length in the middle of a 
cage containing seven lions, and close 
his eyes as if asleep, whereupon his great 
lion "Victor Emmanuel," without any 
word of command, would walk up to his 
master, and, gently lifting his head with 
a paw, would lie down beneath it, so as to 
form a soft pillow. Cooper would then, 
still as if asleep, move his hand within 
reach of the lion's mouth, and the faithful 
brute would continue licking it until the 
tamer arose. Now this was a quiet, unos- 
tentatious performance compared with the 
sham "lion-hunts," and "terrible struggles 
with a tiger " which one is familiar with, 
but, as an exhibition of perfect training 
and confidence in its result, it beats them 

Another secret of Mr. Cooper's success 
is, perhaps, that he is almost a teetotaler, 
never drinking anything stronger than light 
dinner wine. He has a strong opinion, 
which he often expresses, that nearly all 
the fatal accidents to performers with wild 
animals have been due to intemperance, 
often combined with, or leading to, bru- 
tality. Again and again men have entered 
cages in a muddled condition, lashed about 
recklessly among the animals, until a slight 
slip or stagger has been the signal for a 
fearful death. The deaths of John Carter 
and Macarthy may not unjustly be cited as 
cases in point. 

One thing — in itself requiring perfect 
sobriety — is very essential in all perform- 
ances in which lions, and tigers, and 
leopards leap about in proximity to the 
tamer, and that is that the man must 
remain perfectly stilL A movement of an 
inch may cause an animal to miscalculate 
its jump, and, brushing roughly against the 
tamer, knock him down. Then he is as 
good as done for — the whole cage full will 
tear him. The mere running to and fro of 
the great clawed beasts across the prostrate 
body will tear life from a man in almost no 
time. Cooper often taught a leopard to 
jump from a shelf to his head and shoulders 
and back again. The slightest movement 
or " give " to the weight of the animal 
would, of course, have called out the long 
claws to save a fall, with a result that 
may be easily imagined. At times, in leaping 
past, an animal will make a dab, half 
playful, half vicious, or perhaps even all 



playful, with its claw at the tamer. A 
young lioness did this two or three years 
ago to Mr, Cooper, and laid his left arm 
bare of flesh for nearly a foot. This was 
after the tamer's nominal retirement, at a 
performance — in France — such as he gives 
now and again, because he likes it. It was 
only a single tap of this kind from a tiger 
which killed poor Miss Blight, at Chatham, 
and the wound which caused her death was 
only a scratch ; but that scratch was in the 
neck, and severed the jugular vein. 

Mr. Cooper has tamed and trained not 
very many under two thou- 
sand animals of the feline trihe 
alone. In elephants his ex- 
perience has been large. He 
was the first tamer to give a 
performance with a whole 
troop of elephants at once. 
Nobody had ever performed 
with more than two elephants 
before, and this even was 
generally considered one too 
many. So that when Cooper 
clubbed with Mr, Myers and 
bought six, with the inten- 
tion of training them to per- 
form altogether, other ex- 
perienced tamers laughed at 
the idea. Nevertheless, in six 
weeks the performance took 
place with perfect success. 
The training of an elephant 
is a thing involving heavy 
manual labour — it is no light 
task to push and haul an ele- 
phant about till he dances to 
music or rides a tricycle. 
And then, although when 
properly used the animals 
become, as a rule, very tract- 
able, it impossible to predict 
when an elephant may take 
a fit of savagery; when he 
does, with his enormous 
stamping feet f his active 
trunk and his sharp tusks, 
he is a very unpleasant com- 
panion. One of the Wombwells was 
killed at Coventry by an elephant's tusk, 
just a year before Miss Blight's death at 
Chatham. Mr. Cooper's favourite elephant 
was u Blind Billy," the largest beast ever 
tamed, and, though totally blind, the cle- 
verest in the troop of eight with which, 
in 1876, Mr. Cooper used to perform. 
Billy would pick Mr. Cooper up by the 
waist and place him astride his forehead 

and the root of his trunk ; he would also 
stand patiently still while his master's 
entire head and shoulders were inserted 
in his mouth, and when not busy him- 
self was useful in keeping the others in 
order. The extraordinary gambols of 
these others — dancing on their forelegs 
with their hind feet in the air, walking 
on rolling barrels, and so forth, had to be 
seen to be properly appreciated. Green 
stuff is, of course, an elephant's chief food, 
and that is measured to him by the hun- 
dredweight. Still, an elephant is never 

particular. In 1876, during the Crystal 
Palace performances, one of Mr, Cooper's 
grooms missed a suit of clothes, a pocket- 
ful of small change, an ounce of tobacco, 
and a cigar-holder. He complained of the 
theft, and mentioned his suspicions of more 
than one person. It was discovered, how- 
ever, that the big elephant Betsy, rummag- 
ing about one day in search of a snack, had 
swallowed Ui? lot, 


? oo 


A great deal of interest is often taken by 
the public in the money values of wild 
beasts, and consequently figures are often 
published for the public information. But 
these figures never represent a fixed value. 
An animal may cost ^~JOO one week and 
^"500 the next. The reason is that they 
are not things for which the sale is at all 
regular, and a little rise in demand causes 
an immediate leap in prices. Of course a 
trained animal is much more valuable than 
a wild one. Mr. Cooper has bought 
£&QQ worth of elephants, fairly 
young, trained them, and sold them 
for / 12,000. At times, however, 
with no demand, an animal be- 
comes such a 
"drug in the mar- 
ket "that, trained, 
it will fetch even 
less than the high 
price paid for it 
wild. Hagen- 
beck, ot Ham- 
burg, is one of 
the greatest 
dealers in wild 
animals, and al-o 
owns various tra- 
velling menage- 
ries The recent 
show of animals 
at the Crystal 
Palace under 
Herr Mehrmann 
is his, and a very 
interesting show 
it is, although 
the animals are 
all very young. 
Jamrach, of Lon- 
don, and Cross, 
of Liverpool, are 
names familiar to 

Through all 
his training, Mr. 
Cooper has 
never forgotten 
that the example 
of one animal is 
a good thing for another, and takes care 
that, as far as possible, his pets teach each 
other. It is a very usual thing to bring 
up a lion or tiger with a boarhound, and 
the affection which springs up between the 
pair is often marvellous. A tiger and a 
boarhound which Mr. Cooper possessed 
lived together in great amity until the 

boarhound died, whereat the tiger moped 
and was inconsolable. Another boar- 
hound was not procurable at the moment, 
so a great sheep dog was found and placed 
in an adjoining cage, with bars between, 
for a day or two. The tiger took no 
notice. But when, by way of carrying 
the acquaintanceship a little further, the 
bars were withdrawn, the bereaved tiger 
sprang forward and killed the new dog 
with a blow of his paw. 

Mr. Cooper 
has been "re- 
tiring" since 
1883, but hasn't 
quite succeeded 
in tearing him- 
\ self away from 
the animals yet. 
With his own 
beasts he never 
performed for 
less than £$Q a 
week, his usual 
fee being much 
higher, £-.0 and 
more a night 
jf often being paid 
him for starring 
J engagements. 
I But Mr. Cooper 
is a man of a 
thousand, atid we 
trust that the 
printing of these 
not persuade many 
ambitious people to invest all 
their capital in elephants and 
tigers. A menagerie is an ex- 
pensive thing to keep up, the 
animals die off, and fresh acces- 
sions of strength are always being 

When Mr. Cooper will finally 
shut himself in his pleasant house 
at Smethwick, and leave his 
tigers for ever, it is impossible 
to say. But it will be long ere 
the British public will have the op- 
portunity of seeing such another 
master of the brute creation. 
Even Mr, Cooper, however, has his weak 
points, and there is one animal which he 
has never tamed, or attempted to tame, 
common as the experiment is. Mr. Cooper 
has never been married. 

Lion and tiger taming is not always so 
difficult a thing now as it was in Mr. 
Cooper's earlier days, and in those of Van 




Amburgh, John Carter, and Macomo. The 
animals are often bred from those already 
in captivity, and what with this and the 
continual breeding in and in of tame stock, 
they are almost born tame, besides which 
the training begins in the cub-period. In- 
deed, many widely advertised shows are 

now entirely carried through with very 
young animals, Still the game is often 
risky enough, and new, large animals aTe 
being continually imported. Let us trust 
that no unfortunate John Carter or Ellen 
Blight is marked in the book of destiny to 
die under their claws. 

Original from 

The Last Touches. 

By Mrs. VV. K. Clifford, Author of " Mrs. Keith's Crime' 

WITHOUT doubt Henry Car- 
bon che was the greatest 
painter in France, He had 
done his best to convince the 
world of this, and the world 
had responded by trying to 
prove its conviction. A few inches of canvas 
that he had covered with paint were worth 
thousands. Sovereigns thought it a privi- 
lege to inspect his studio, decorations were 
offered him, but he cynically refused them, 
even though he was a Frenchman. Bio- 
graphical writers pined for details of his life, 
but he supplied none, No one knew who he 
was, or where he had studied, or what had 
been his history. His pictures were famous, 
but it seemed as if his fame had had no begin- 
ning; it had arrived suddenly at its height. 
One year no one had known his work, the 
next it was spoken of almost as a national 
possession ; it had been considered one ever 
since. But he himself was hardly known, 
even by sight. He had no friends, no par- 
ticular haunts, nothing that made him 
intimate with his fellow men, no one visited 
him except on business, and then the inter- 
views were short, and to the point. It had 
happened of late years 
that he had been temp- 
ted now and then by 
some almost fabulous 
sum to paint a portrait. 
But his sitters knew 
him little better than 
the rest of the world, 
and could give but few 
details concerning him ; 
for, while he painted, 
he was silent and for- 
mal, and all attempts 
to draw him into con- 
versation failed utterly. 
The bow with which 
he wished his sitter 
adieu for the last time 
was as distant as the 
one which he had re- 
ceived him with ; for 
he had never painted 
a woman, He was no 
longer young, fifty, 
more or less; he gave 

no clue to his age, but he was getting 
grey, and the lines on his face were many 
and deep. His expression was grave and 
stern, his bearing was almost distinguished. 
He appeared to take some interest in his 
work, but he was never eager about it. His 
pictures seemed to be things apart from 
him, to come into being as though some 
unseen power other than the man who held 
the brush inspired them. Besides his work, 
he took an interest in his investments, 
but that interest also seemed half curiosity; 
he shrugged his shoulders as he counted his 
thousands, and, putting away the record of 
his wealth in an iron safe, turned to his 
work again. 

Through the winter he stayed in Paris in 
his house near the Pare Monceau. In the 
early summer he disappeared, and the only 
clue to his wandering was afforded, later on, 
perhaps by some picture he exhibited. His 
house was a splendid one. Its appointments 
were perfect; he looked at them with cold 
criticism, but that was all. The names of 
his servants he hardly remembered ; but he 
turned on them fiercely if they neglected 
their duties. His food, the food he ate, was 
the simplest, yet he stormed if the table 

H HE », S , JE D .US SiYttR AD 1EU .' 



were meagre. His studio was the one bare, 
undecorated room in the house ; it was 
absolutely destitute of all the luxuries that 
painters of these days affect. There were 
a couple of easy-chairs, and a table near 
the fiTe-place — a great open fire-place on 
which he burnt huge logs of wood ; for the 
rest, there were the actual necessities to his 
work, but that was all. He spent most of 
his time in the studio; he worked there, arid 
sat there, day in, day out, save when he 
went for his two hours' drive, or took his 
way to the gorgeous sallc a manger to eat 
his solitary meals. It was in the studio 
that his pictures were sold to eager buyers, 
who thought it an honour to stand in his 
presence. The other rooms of the house 
were always empty, waiting, it seemed, to 
form a setting to a life that refused to be 
lived, or belonging to a story that never 
was told, and that day by day siipt back 
farther and farther into the past. 

There were many anecdotes told of 
Carbouche, all of them turning on a certain 
savagery that seemed to be in him; as when 
he had painted the portrait of Alphonse 
Bubois, the millionaire, and had brought 
out the sinister expression on his face with 
a malignity that was almost startling. Or 
when his famous picture of the forest of 
St, Germain en Laye had suggested to 
everyone that its beauty was over rated — 
its terrace walk a long, straight road, its 
famous view merely an effect of distance 
and winding river that was, after all, well 
known in other views; even the dim city in 
the distance, with the thousands of human 
histories gathered together in the far-off 
mists, seemed to have some false quality in 
its poetry. " And, oh, that forest, 11 said an 
English girl, who stood before the picture in 
its place of honour in the safott, 
" I felt once as I walked down the 
terrace, and looked into the trim 
depths, that it was artificial. Now 
I know that it is. I believe that 
every tree was reared in a square 
box painted green, and let into 
the ground beneath, like a theatre 
growth. Perhaps even the squir- 
rels are shams, and their bushy 
tails were bought at the furrier's 
and sewn on to make believe." 

"Ah, Carbouche is a great 
painter," said her companion, as 
they passed on; u but he always 
brings out the cynical side of the 
world, and the worst aspect of 


Cakboic hk had returned to Paris. The 
logs were piled on the studio fire, for the 
room was chilly after its long spell of 
emptiness. In the painter's life there was 
little warmth, little of anything but work 
and silence, and his surroundings seemed to 
express the condition of his soul. He strode 
up and down, looking at his easel, and the 
little, old-fashioned bureau for colours 
beside it. On a shelf to its left there were 
some brushes and a palette. Against the 
wall were one or two sketches, but they 
were slight and unfinished, for there was 
never any work of Carbouche's unsold, if 
money could buy it. The only other canvas 
in the room rested on the floor, with its face 
to the wall, half-hidden by an old worn 
portfolio. No one save Carbouche knew 
what was painted on it, and he had avoided 
looking at it for years, with a carefulness 
that was half scorn, half superstition. Be- 
fore the blazing fire were the two easy- 
chairs, and on the little table between them 
an open box of cigarettes. Carbouche sat 
down, and, lighting a cigarette, smoked 
vigorously until the end was thrown among 
the blazing logs. 

There was a faint rumbling in the distance. 
It came nearer, it entered the gateway, and 
he knew by the grinding sound peculiar to 
the turning of a carriage on gravel that a 
visitor had arrived. He waited half resent- 
fully, impatient at the prospect of being 

The servant entered with a card, "Milor," 
and he hesitated, Carbouche took the card, 
ami said slowly, as if he, too, found the 
name difficult. 

" The Earl of Harlekston. Ah, one mo- 

1 '■> v 'in in 'it wwk " 




ment, Auguste, I have forgotten." He 
sorted a note from a dozen on the mantel- 
piece, and read it. (i Ask milor if he will 
enter." A minute later there appeared a 
middle-aged, well-groomed Englishman. 

" Good morning, monsieur," the painter 
?aid stiffly. " I regret that you should have 
had the trouble of coming. I only returned 
last night, and found your note." 

" I did not expect an answer," Lord 
Harlekston said in excellent French. 
Carbouche, of course, could speak no 
other tongue. 

u But I regret to have caused you a 
fruitless journey. 11 

" I am delighted 
to have made it. 
It is, if you will 
allow me to say 
so, a great privi- 
lege to have en- 
tered your studio," 

''lam nattered," 
the painter said, 
coldly, " but I 
apologise again for 
the unanswered 

" It is very good 
of you to apologise, 
but ." 

"And I regret 

exceedingly ," 

Carbouche began 

" Will you allow 
me to sit down ? " 
the Englishman 
asked, and went 
towards one of the 

" C e r t a i n 1 y , 
monsieur ; " but it was said half unwil- 
lingly. Lord Harlekston looked round the 
studio again, then at the artist, who had 
seated himself, facing his visitor. 

"I see you affect the severities of life 
rather than the frivolities," the latter went 
on ; "it is quite a relief. One can breathe 
in your studio. London ones choke you ; 
they are so full of gimcracks." Carbouche 
bowed ; he evidently wished to convey that 
it would be well to come to the point. 
Lord Harlekston took the hint. "I told 
you in my note that my wife wished to be 
painted by you, M, Carbouche." 

" I am much honoured by the desire of 
ladame la Comtesse, and regret that I am 
not a portrait painter, " 

" She would think it an honour to 
sit to you," Lord Harlekston said cour- 

" I regret much that I am not a portrait 
painter," Carbouche repeated distantly. 

u But," said Lord Harlekston hesitatingly, 
" I think I have seen one or two portraits 
that you have painted.'" 

" That is possible ; but they have been 
very few, and for 
each one there 
have been rea- 

a Would it not 
be possible to 
make a reason in 
this case ? " 

" I have never 
painted a woman, 
monsieur. I do 
not wish to paint 
one, much as I am 
nattered at your 
desire that I 
should begin with 

Lord Harlekston 
was evidently a 
diplomat. "You 
increase my desire 
by that remark," 
he said suavely. 
" Is it not possible 
to persuade you ? 
One feels a hesita- 
tion in speaking of 
money in connec- 
tion with work like 
yours. Jts value, I 
know, is immense." 
" It is immense, 
monsieur, 11 the 
painter said grimly, and turned towards 
the fire. 

"Which again increases my desire," 
"I would not paint a woman under — " 
and he named an enormous sum, " and 
then I should prefer not to do it," and he 
looked iiitti the fire almost savagely. 

" I should be delighted to pay that sum, 
and most grateful to you besides." 

" I am very busy, and I never did a por- 
trait that took much time — three or four 
sittings at most." 

" That would be fortunate, since our 
stay in Paris is very short," 

" I would not give much time to a 
face that is, after all, of no interest to 
the world," the puinttir went on. "I do 




not mean this as any lack of compliment 
to Madame la Comtesse," he added. " But 
you will understand, monsieur, that the face 
of a woman, even if it is beautiful — and 
no doubt madame's is beautiful — is not so 
interesting as a man's face. Of course, I 
would not say this before the other sex; 
but we are alone, and can speak without 

" I perfectly understand," Lord Harlekston 
said, "I am going to the Pyrenees next 
Thursday for a fortnight. Would it be 
possible while I am away ? " 

" I am very busy," Carbouche persisted. 

" Of course, we are only talking of a head; 
but even a sketch we should feel to be a 
great possession." 

Carbouche looked at the fire, and hated 
the woman already. Still, deep in his soul 
there lurked a love of money, and the sum 
he had mentioned was a fabulous one for a 
portrait. No man in Europe but himself 
would have dared to ask it. He felt a 
triumph in remembering this, just as he 
felt a dogged triumph in adding to his 
wealth ; it gave him a sense of defiance 
towards the world, of having conquered it, 
and put it under his feet — that insolent 
world that in the beginning had given him 
nothing, had made him suffer and feel 
keenly that he was nobody, that he had not 
even money to study as he had wished, that 
he had only, and that in secret, a sense of 
power, a knowledge that the time would 
come that was now here. Yes, it was now 
here, but he knew that on its way it had 
stripped itself of all the gifts fate usually 
made to other men. After all, what had 
he in life ? His fame did not sweeten a 
single moment to any other person on earth. 
His great house was worse than a tomb ; it 
would never hold any dead, save, perhaps, 
his own lonely body. His money had 
served him nothing except to strengthen 
his feeling of defiance, and loneliness, and 
hatred towards the world. And yet he 
thought scornfully he would leave the 
world richer than he had found it, possessed 
of things in which it took a pride, but each 
one would be a sign of his power, his great- 
. ness, his scorn. He was perfectly aware of 
what the world would owe him, the world 
that once had grudged him all things. 
But this woman, what had he to do with 
women that he should paint her portrait ? 
With almost a start he turned to his visitor, 
who had been watching him curiously. 

" Monsieur," he said, " I am not very 
gallant but I would prefer to keep to the 

work I have already arranged. I am, as I 
said before, much flattered that an English 
lady should desire to have a picture of her- 
self at my hands ; still, if I did a portrait at 
all, it would, perhaps, be only just that I 
should paint one of my own country- 

" Then, let me give you the chance of 
paying a double compliment; for my wife is 
half French." 

" Ah, madame is half French ? " 

" Her father was English, but her mother 
was French." 

" It was so ? " the painter repeated 
oddly, and he looked up as if an impossible 
idea were dawning upon him. 

" When she was a girl, she lived at St. 
Germain en Laye, until she went to her 
father's people in England. They sent for 
her when she was nineteen or twenty." 

" Ah, yes. I remember them sending 
for mademoiselle," Carbouche said. An 
expression of satisfaction broke over the 
Englishman's face. 

" Now you understand, I see," he said, 
" my wife told me, if all other arguments 
failed, that I was to urge that you and she 
were old friends." 

" Madame la Comtesse has an excellent 
memory," the painter said cynically, " it 
matches the other qualities I remember 
in mademoiselle." 

" You were in the same pension ? " Lord 
Harlekston said. 

" I was staying with M. and Madame 
Carton at the Pavilion Rouge. I was 
young, monsieur, and venerated an old 
soldier above all things. Monsieur Carton 
was one ; but he had belonged to the old 
order of things, and despised the new one. 
He had left Paris, and he and Madame 
lived quietly at the Pavilion Rouge on such 
money as they had saved or could gather in 
giving instruction. Monsieur taught some 
of the youths in the town, and madame 
received one or two pupils into her family. 
That was how I knew mademoiselle ; she 
was staying there with her mother, Madame 

" I wonder you did not paint her then, 
she was very beautiful." 

For a moment the expression on Car- 
bouche's face softened as he answered : 
" Yes, she was very beautiful." 

" But probably you were studying at one 
of the schools in Paris ; I never heard who 
had the honour of being your master." 

" I never owned one, monsieur, and belong 
to no school. If there is fire in oneself, one 




can nourish it, and make it strong. If one's 
eye is not true, and one's hand is not 
docile, if one does not see the outward ex- 
pression, and understand the soul that is 
beneath, then one had better give up the 
endeavour to give the world that which 
has not been created for it by someone 

" But all men have studied in some 

" All, with exceptions, monsieur.' 1 

" My wife tells me that you and she had 
many talks together." 

" Madame is most kind to remember ; " 
the painter's voice was cynical again ; " for 
in those days I was nobody, and had nothing 
save ambitions." He was silent for a mo- 
ment, and looked into the fire. u It was a 
pleasant menage" he went on, as if he were 
talking to himself; " M. and Madame Car- 
ton, Madame Brooke and mademoiselle, one 
or two others, and myself who had been 
received because my father had also been a 
soldier, and was 
known to M. 

"Was the Pa- 
vilion Rouge 
near the Cha- 
teau?" Lord 
Harlekston ask- 
ed, remembering 
Carbouche's pic- 

"Ah no, mon- 
sieur, it was half 
an hour from the 
Chateau, outside 
St. Germain alto- 
gether, on the 
road to the forest 
of Marly. But I 
am keeping you, 
monsieur. These 
recollections are after all of little interest. 
Express my compliments to madame." 

" But the portrait, M. Carbouche ? " 

"I do not understand why madame 
should wish to sit to me; xve have not met 
since she left St. Germain." 

" She does wish it, and she hoped that 
you would consent for the sake of your old 
acquaintance, which it has always been a 
great pleasure to her to remember." 

Carbouche frowned, and was silent for a 
moment, then suddenly he looked up. 

"Monsieur," he said, "I should think it 
a pleasure to paint a portrait of Madame la 

The logs were piled on the studio fire 
again. The light was carefully arranged. 
On the easel was a small canvas, large 
enough perhaps for a head and shoulders, 
but no more. On a slightly raised platform 
was a chair. Carbouche was awaiting his 
sitter ; and walked up and down expecting 
to hear again the sound that had disturbed 
him three mornings ago. " Madame la 
Comtesse," he said to himself; "Madeline 
e-egh," and an ugly sound came from his 
lips, but it was an expression of pain. " Per- 
haps she wears the grey squirrel round her 
throat still. It must be a different throat 
from that of three and twenty years ago. 
Mon Dieu, but if things had come at the 
other end of life 
instead of at this" 
— he stopped be- 
fore the portfolio 
in the corner, and 
pulled out the 
canvas from be- 
hind it. It re- 
presented some 
chestnut trees in 
a forest, and a 
youth who was 
trying to see the 
face of a girl, but 
she had turned 
away from him. 
" I wish I had 
seen her eyes 
then, I should 
have known," he 
said. In a cor- 
ner was written 
" Marly, iS— ." 
He put the pic- 
ture back wjth a 
sigh, and paced 
up and down again. Then the door opened, 
and a tall, graceful woman entered. Car- 
bouche bowed formally, his face grew hard, 
but he looked curiously at his visitor, trying 
to see her features through the lace veil 
that covered them. 

" How do you do, M. Carbouche ? It is 
indeed a pleasure to see you again." Her 
voice was low and sweet, and his heart 
stirred to it, but he set his teeth together 
and answered stiffly — 

" Bon jour, madame ; I am to have the 
honour of painting your portrait." 

" It is too good of you to consent," she 
said, and came a step forward. He listened 




with an odd gratitude at the rustle of her 
dress. Then he answered — 

''To paint is my business in life, madame." 
There was standing behind Lady Harlek- 
ston a trim-looking lady's maid ; Carbouche 
looked at her inquiringly. 

"It is only my maid, Susette," Lady 
Harlekston explained; "she will arrange 
me," and then she looked at Carbouche- s 
face. " It is strange to meet you again ; I 
have often wished " 

" We will begin your portrait, madame, 
at once if you will make yourself ready." 

" Ah, yes, we must not waste your time ; 
it is too precious. Susette," she unhooked 
her cloak, and the maid took it. With 
almost hungry eyes the painter watched her. 
The figure beneath the cloak was slim 
enough, though naturally in three and 

make a substitute as best one can." She 
turned towards him a little reluctantly. 

" I am changed," she said, with some- 
thing that was almost pathetic in her voice, 
and a smile that asked him to contradict 
her, but he answered with extreme gravity. 

" Naturally, madame, we are both 
changed — you are Madame la Comtesse, 
and I am an old man." 

"Ah no, not old, monsieur," she said 
with a smile that was meant to be winning ; 
a little dislike shot through him. Suddenly 
he saw her face, and something that was 
almost hatred took possession of him. The 
eyes that looked up at him were not as 
blue as formerly, and they had lost their 
look of trustfulness. Her eyebrows were 
fine and arched and darker than her hair. 
Lady Harlekston was not the daughter of a 


twenty years it had lost its girlishness. 
He had seen, too, the moment she entered, 
that the freedom of movement of old days 
had developed into a womanly ease that 
had with it especially an air of distinction. 
Then the maid undid her veil, which had 
been fastened by a little tortoise-shell arrow, 
and Carbouche saw in a moment, with his 
keen quick eyes that took in every detail 
and refused him any illusions, that, though 
her hair was golden, still its colouring was 
harsher than formerly. "Ah," he thought, 
" there had been many winters since the 
summer end in which we said ' Good-bye '; 
and, when the sunshine goes, one has to 

Frenchwoman for nothing, and knew well, 
as years advanced, how to offer nature the 
little attentions of art. There was a flush 
upon her cheek ; he remembered the flush 
of old, and knit his brows when he saw the 
one that was there now. And her lips had 
lost their moulding and their colour, her 
chin had taken to itself a little firmness, 
and about her face were lines that nothing 
would ever smooth away save death, which 
often, when it gathers in the years to itself, 
gathers in their footprints too, and leaves 
the face smooth as if the traveller, having 
reached the end of his circle, had met his 
youth again. There was no disguising it, 





on the face of Lady Harlekston and in her 
whole bearing, handsome and fashionable 
woman though she was counted, there was 
something artificial and worldly. Car- 
bouche saw it, and forgave her nothing. 

M And now, Susette, you may go ; the 
sitting was to be two hours, was it not, 
monsieur ? At one o'clock you can re- 
turn ; bring the carriage, for I shall be 

'' Your maid can wait if you prefer 
it, madame. There is a chair by the 

"Ah no ; she has some shopping to do. 
Besides, we are old friends, monsieur." 
There was something very French in her 
manner, even he recognised it. " And I 
want— I want," she lingered over the words 
until the door was shut behind the maid, 
"to have some talk, it would be impos- 
sible before a maid." Carbouche shrank 

(i Pardon, madame," he said, as he 
motioned her to the chair on the platform 
and looked for his charcoal stick ; " but I 
have not the honour of being an old 
friend ; it is not ten minutes since you 

" 1 was thinking of years ago," she said 
in her low voice. 

"The years ago have no more concern with 
us, madame, than the dead who He in their 
graves. To-day we have 
to think of your portrait. 
Will you have the 
goodness to turn a little 
more to the light ? " 
and he stepped back to 
look at her pose. 

" Am I very much 
changed ? " she asked 
sadly. " Time is an 
envious thing, madame, 
and takes something 
from us all," Carbouche 
said as he began to draw 
on his canvas, " it is sel- 
dom so self-denying as 
to take least from the 
beautiful." She madu a 
little grimace 
that had 
been studied, 
and it had 
its effect upon 
him accord- 
ingly. For a 
few minutes 
neither of 

them spoke. " You were surprised when you 
heard who your sitter was to be Hen — M. 
Carbouche ? " she corrected herself almost 
elaborately, and watched the effect of her 
seemingly careless slip upon him. His 
manner was colder and still more formal 
than before, and he answered — 

" There are many unexpected things in 
life, Madame la Corntesse ; but as one 
grows old one is seldom much surprised," 
and again there was a silence. 

" You find it difficult to talk while you 
paint ? " she asked. 

" As a rule I prefer to be silent, 

" I long so much to hear about your- 

"I am flattered at madame 's longing," 
he said coldly. 

" I have watched your career with much 

" I am honoured at madame's interest/' 
and he went on with his work. Lady Har- 
lekston was baffled. When he looked up 
at her there was no expression on his face 
except one of desire to accomplish accu- 
rately the portrait on which he was engaged. 
Evidently he worked with extraordinary 
quickness and decision. An hour passed, a 
good deal of progress had been made with 
the portrait, but the painter and his sitter 
were precisely on the terms they had been 
the moment after her 

Presently she made 
a bold venture. " Have 
you been to St. Ger- 
main lately ? " she asked 

" No, madame." 
" It is a dear place," 
she said, " I long to see 
it again." 

" That would not be 
difficult," he answered 
absently, as if his whole 
attention were given to 
his work. u It is not an 
hour from Paris, and the 
trains are frequent." 

"It is full of memories, 
it would only make me 
sad," sbe said with a 
sigh, but he was silent. 
" It is a beautiful place," 
she added. 

"It is not beautiful 

now, madame," he said 

qinalOWtfy i " ** is winter, 




and the leaves have fallen — St. Ger- 
main depends on its leaves ; when 
they are gone, it is bare and ugly, its 
beauty is like that of a woman. As a 
rule a woman has little that is beautiful 
beneath her looks ; when the summer goes 
St. Germain has nothing beneath its 

"Youth and summer are not everything," 
she said almost piteously. 

" Ah, no," he answered, " sometimes 
wisdom and knowledge come with age, and 
in winter there is time for reflection." 
Another silence. Carbouche went on with 
the portrait. Keenly and quickly he looked 
at her ; surely and unhesitatingly his brush 
went to the canvas. The sitting was nearly 
at an end. 

" Monsieur," "she said softly, " I think you 
are very hard." 

" Perhaps," and he shrugged his 
shoulders ; " but one cannot help one's 
nature, it is one's misfortune or the re- 

" I think," she went on reflectively, "it is 
a" little inevitable — it is one of the qualities 
of genius, so many precious things are 
hard ; the diamond is hardest of all," she 
added plaintively. 

" Madame is most ingenious, she would 
make one feel flattered even at the posses- 
sion of one's defects," but there was no 
yielding in his voice. She was silent for a 
few minutes, he lifted his brush and pulled 
his thumb out of the palette. The sitting 
was over ; he looked at her curiously and 
then at his work. The carriage drove up in 
front of the house. With almost a gasp 
she asked — 

" Do you never forgive ? " He looked at 
her straightly. 

"Forgive? Oh yes, we all do that 

"And does forgiveness make no differ- 
ence ? " she asked. 

" I should perhaps forgive a burglar who 
broke in and stole," he answered ; " but 
afterwards I should bar the door, knowing 
the manner of person who was possibly 

" I want to speak of the past," she said, 
and put out her hands, then drew them 
back quickly. 

" But this is my studio in Paris, madame. 
I have the honour to be painting your por- 
trait, and, if you will have the goodness, we 
will confine our conversation to the things 
that concern it. Ah, here is your maid and 
your cloak ; I compliment you on its 

colour, it would be good to paint. On 
Thursday, then, at eleven, and with two 
more sittings, if we are diligent, the portrait 
will be finished. I wish Madame la Com- 
tesse good day." 


Lady Harlekston was sitting for the last 
time. The portrait was nearly finished. 
As a painting it was perfect, as a work of 
art — was it not Carbouche's ? But it was as 
accurate and as merciless as a looking-glass. 
The face of the woman on the canvas was 
the face of the woman who sat, nothing was 
softened. The hair had that harshness 
dye gives it ; the colour on the cheeks was 
the tint of that which had replaced the 
natural one on the original. Every line that 
time had set on her was reproduced, every 
year that she had lived could be counted ; 
nay, it seemed as if every day and night of 
them had been in the painter's mind while 
he worked. She was in despair. That to 
go forth as her portrait painted by the im- 
mortal Carbouche ! That artificial, made-up- 
looking face of who shall say how many 
years and forty to be known to the world 
as hers ; it would be a shame and reproach 
even to her descendants ! Once or twice 
she tried to remonstrate, but words had no 
effect on him ; he was amenable to no hints. 
Nothing deceived him, no half turning 
from the light availed, no wile for a single 
second served its purpose. His eye as it 
fell upon her seemed to see her through and 
through, till her cheeks burned and her 
throat trembled ; and his brush unerringly 
went to the canvas, and without pity or 
scruple set down what he had seen. 

" Will it be finished to-day ? " she asked 

" It is nearly finished now, madame." 

" And is that colour really mine ? " 

He looked up at her in surprise. "But 
certainly, madame." 

" You have put in all my wrinkles," she 
said gently. 

"I regret, but cannot help them. The 
years do not like to be forgotten, they set a 
mark on us as they go by ; and it was 
madame's portrait that I was asked to 

" You might have left out a few," she 
said ; " a woman has her vanities." 

" I might have left out one eye, madame, 
but then it would not have been a 

" It makes me sad to see them," she said, 
" they remind me — they are like the beads 




we tell beside the dead, one for every year, 
and hope, and joy that is gone." 

" Madame is poetic," and he touched the 
throat of the portrait with his brush. She 
pulled up the lace about her own throat a 
little higher. He saw it, and took away 
some of the fairness from the one he had 
painted. " It is too white," he whispered, 
and she writhed. Slowly she rose, and 
going to her cloak felt in its pocket. 

" Monsieur," she asked, " is it too late to 
paint this collar round my throat ? It is 
grey squirrel, and I have possessed it many 
years.'' His eye fell on it, and with a 
little start he turned away. 

" It is too late," he answered firmly, and 
deepened the line about the mouth. 

" You work so quickly," she pleaded ; 
"paint it in, monsieur. You have been 
hard to me." The last words were almost 
whispered. fl But now this last sitting you 
will be a little gentle : we shall never meet 
again " she added sadly in a voice that 
sounded prophetic. 

"There is no time;" but he seemed 

"But the por- 
trait is nearly 
done," she said ; 
" see, I will fasten , 

the collar here," 
and she put it 
round part of the 
ornamentation on 
the back of the 
chair on which 
she had been sit- 
ting. M Try and 
paint it, mon- 
sieur, while I rest 
a little, for I am 
tired and cold." 
She seemed 
weary. There 
was something 
pathetic in her 
demeanour as she 
went slowly to- 
wards one of the 
chairs by the 
little table. Per- 
haps it softened 
him, for he began 
to paint in the 
grey squirrel. A 
long silence. 
Once his eyes 
wandered to her 
as she sat over 

the fire, her face turned from him, but her 
beautiful figure thrown into relief by the 
blaze from the logs. Presently she got 
up, and walked round the studio, and again 
he listened gratefully to the rustle of her 
dress, it was so unusual a sound in that 

" Monsieur," she said, u there is a can- 
vas behind the portfolio in this corner. 
It has its face turned towards the wall, 
but if there is a picture on it, may I see 
it ? " 

" If I wished it seen, its face would not 
be towards the wall ; therefore, madam e 
must excuse it." She moved away, 
and stood by his side, the left side, close to 
the hand that held the palette. He went 
on with his work almost as if he did not 
know she was there. The* grey collar was 
nearly finished ; but he lingered over the 
picture, touching it here and there, with a 
little stroke, almost as if he were dreaming. 
He brushed away a wrinkle that showed in 
the throat above the fur. She went a little 

" Henri, 1 ' she said, softly, " the chestnuts 

B STOOD BY HglpRffflal f 




are falling in the forest of Marly ; " the 
brush nearly fell from his hand. 

" Yes," he answered ; " they are falling, 
and the leaves lie dead, as all things lie dead 
sooner or later." His voice had lost its 

" The summer is over, but it is not win- 
ter yet, and all things are not dead. Ah ! 
go on, I like to watch you. The little grey 
squirrel makes me think " 

" Why did you keep it ? " he asked, 
through his teeth. 

" To remember — though it was not 
possible to forget," she answered. " Give 
it to me ; let me put it round my throat." 

" Madame will be seated again," he said, 
trying to fall back into his most formal 

"No, let me stand here, you have so 
nearly finished, and do not want me to sit 
again ? Thank you, monsieur," and she 
put the collar round her throat. " I love 
it," she whispered. " No, don't stop," she 
went on,, hurriedly, "and don't look at me, 
there is no necessity, you do not forget my 

" No, I do not forget," he answered, with 
his eyes on the picture. 

" Surely that chin is a little heavy above 
the collar. Nay, feel it— yes — yes, just this 
once." She rested her face on his sleeve 
for a moment, and softly pulled his right 
hand towards the palette, and then the left 
one towards her chin. "The touch of the fur, 
does it make you remember ? " she asked, 
as she raised her head. 

" I have never forgotten," he answered, 
with a little break in his voice ; and the 
chin on the canvas grew round again, 
and the lines about it were smoothed away. 

She spoke again, hardly above her 
breath — 

" I so often think of the forest," she 
said, "and the path towards where the 
fountains had been : we played our little 
play " 

" It was only a play," he half turned his 
head towards her ; but softly she put up her 
hand, and pushed it from her. 

" No," she said, " think of the girl who 
was, Henri," her voice was almost tragic in 
its sweetness ; " and of how she and you 
pretended they were back in the days of the 
Queen. You were walking with me 
en potisson, and I was a Court lady in the 
habit de Marly." 

" It was only a play," he repeated. 

" It was much more to me," she answered. 
" You said once when the wind blew among 

my hair that it was like the marriage of the 
sunshine and the wind. Take away the 
smoothness there " (she nodded at the 
picture), " and put in a suggestion of the 
wind, so that I may remember." 

" It is all too late," he said bitterly, as he 
took up some colour from his palette of a 
brighter hue than he had already used, and 
worked it into the hair. " It was like 
gold," he said to himself. She was almost 
bitter when she spoke again. 

" I can see your face as if it were yester- 
day, but you have forgotten." The reproach 
seemed to sting him. 

"Never." It was like a cry of pain. 
She gave a long sigh and went on — 

" I think of your eyes sometimes, as they 
looked down at me. Have you forgotten 
mine ? " 

" I never forgot, Madeline," he exclaimed, 
and turned towards her again ; but again 
she put up her hand, and kept his face from 

" No, no," she said ; " go on, and don't 
look at me, or think of me, as I am now. 
Think of me as I was then, and stood 
beneath the chestnuts, and felt the colour 
come to my face ; surely it was not like that 
you have put on my face there. You said 
— but I am afraid to think of your words " 
(and there was a quiver in her voice) ; " I 
have so often wondered if they were true." 

" They were all true," and he touched 
the cheeks of the portrait. 

" You said that you loved me." 

" I did tell you I loved you, Madeline." 

" But you forgot soon — you have loved 
other women since, and said the same 
words to them ! " 

" I have said them to no other woman. 
I have been dumb, and lived remembering," 
and still, without knowing it, his brush 
wandered over the canvas, till the blue had 
come into the eyes again, and the gold to 
the hair, and the softness of youth to the 
skin, till the face of the made-up, middle- 
aged woman had gone, and in its stead 
remained the beautiful one of twenty years 
before. And a smile broke over the stern 
face as he watched lovingly the effect of 
every touch his brush made. "I loved 
you," he repeated simply, " and have lived 
alone for your sake." Then suddenly he 
put down the brush, and turned quickly. 
She bent her head so that he should not 
see her face, but he stooped till his lips for 
a minute touched the grey fur about her 
throat. There was a sound of wheels 
beneath ; the orniage had come for her. 




11 Tell me you loved me," he said; u that 
you, too, meant your words." She put her 
hands over her face, and uneasily he saw 
the diamonds on her fingers. The door 
opened, and with a start they drew back. 

" Madame," said Susette, entering 
hurriedly, " milor has returned suddenly. 
Important business takes him to England ; 
we leave Paris in two hours' time. The 
portrait is to go finished or unfinished." 

" Ah ! take it, Susette, but carry it care- 
fully, for it is not yet dry," Lady Harlekston 
said impetuously. 

" And here is a letter for milady ; milord 
told me to ask you to open it imme- 

" Yes, yes ; but take the portrait, Susette. 
Let it go," she whispered to Carbouche, 
who stepped forward as Susette went 
towards the easel. 

" But I must touch it," he said, be- 

"Ah f no, no, 1 ' she whispered again. "Let 
it go. Carry it carefully, Susette, and rest 
it against the back seat. You need not 
return. I will descend in a moment." 

As Susette vanished, Lady Harlekston 
opened the letter from her husband. There 
was an envelope enclosed. She looked at 

the address, and hurriedly put on her 

" But now, Madeline, tell me — tell me," 
Carbouche said, eagerly. 

She looked up ; he saw her face, and 
started back with dismay. 

" Ah ! monsieur," she said politely, " this 
letter is for you. And now " 

She went two steps towards the door. 

u But tell me," he said, with a gasp ; " in 
this last moment, before you go, tell me, 
did you mean " 

A mocking laugh came from her lips. 

" Oh ! monsieur," she said. " But the 
portrait is finished, and it is charming. 
Adieu ! A million thanks," and she swept 
from the room. 

" Madeline ! " he exclaimed, petrified ; 
but she was already descending the stairs. 

" Adieu ! " she laughed up at him. " The 
portrait is finished, and the last touches 
were perfect. That is all I wanted." 

He drew back, and stood looking at the 
empty easel, bewildered. There was a 
grating sound on the gravel. She had 
gone. Mechanically he tore open the 
envelope in his hand. A dozen bank-notes 
fluttered from it, and scattered themselves 
at his feet. 

Original from 

•^fe£yC urious 

HE history 
and growth 
, i>l inven- 
tions are 
subjects in 
which all 
are inter- 
ested. The difficulties and rebuffs which 
inventors have had to undergo in the per- 
fecting of their ideas, their perseverance 
and ultimate success, form most interesting 

Vast sums of money are brought in by 
apparently simple inventions requiring no 
great mechanical knowledge. The accounts 
of these read more like the wildest fiction 
than simple fact, and are sufficient to make 
the least covetous among us bright _ j ^_ & 
yellow with jealousy. The very sim- «as 
plicity of some of them creates a feeling 
of annoyance ; we feel we could have 
invented them with the greatest ease. 
If we had only known better the 
wants and tastes of the public, we might 
ourselves have been the recipients of 
those compact round sums. The stylo- 
graphic pen brought in ^"40,000 per 
annum, the india-rubber tips to pencils 
^20,000, metal plates for protecting the 
soles and heels of boots brought in 
^250,000 in all, the roller skate / 200,000. 
A "clergyman realised ^4°° a week D >" 
the invention of a toy ; another toy, the 
return ball (a wooden ball with a piece of 
elastic attached), brought in an annual in- 
come of £\ 0,000, the " Dancing Jim Crow " 
^."15,000 per annum, whilst ''Pharaoh's 
Serpents," a chemical toy, brought in 
^~io,oooinall ; the common needle-threader 
brought in ^2,000 a year ; the inventor of 
a copper cap for children's boots was able 

to leave his heir ^400,000 ; whilst Singer, 
of sewing-machine fame, left at his death 
nearly £t, ,000,000. 

But there is another side to the question 
— the humorous side. It is to this that I 
propose to confine myself more particularly 
here, and to describe, with the help or 
drawings, some of the wonderful things 
which people have thought it worth their 
while to patent, strong in the hope or 
making a big fortune in the near future, 
only to find in so many cases that their in- 
ventions were impracticable and very often 
perfectly ridiculous. 

The prevention of sea-sickness has long 
been a subject of interest to all travellers. 
Some of the cures and preventives have 
been curious. One suggestion I remember 

Original ffWrf- 


seeing recommended was the tying of a 
Bradshaw, or any other hard substance, 
tightly to the waist. But an invention de- 
picted here (Fig. ]) beats this hollow in its 
originality of conception. The 
passenger's chair is attached to a 
balloon, the chair being connected 
to the deck by a ball and socket 
joint ; to keep the balloon from 
swaying too much, it is attached to 
a n>d above. 

The next piece of furniture we will take 
is the bed. A man invents a four-poster, 
which can be converted into a bath. The 

canopy above forms the vessel for 
the shower-bath, rhe water being 
pumped up through a pipe in one of 
the four uprights (Fig. 2), Another 
bed is called the alarum bed ; at the 
appointed hour the two lower legs 
bend backwards and awake the 
occupant (Fig, 3). 

The next thing is a vapour bath, 
constructed as depicted heTe, with a 
hole for the head and hands (Fig, 
4). Of all the inventions mentioned 
in this paper, this is the only one I 
have ever seen in use. 

The hat or cap has received a 
great deal of attention from the 
inventors. Wefind niethodspatented 
for making it water-proof, blow- 
proof, for ventilating it, for draining it, and 
for keeping it warm, some of these methods 
being as complicated and cumbrous a- those 
applied to buildings. 

One of the methods for ventilating a hat 
is indeed startling. The crown is made 
separate from the sides. They are united 
by means of springs, slides, or staples, so 
that the crown may be partially or wholly 
raised, or shut down entirely, at the 
pleasure of the wearer ! 

1 wonder how many of these hats w^ere 
sold. I think the " e very-day " man would 
prefer holding his hat in his hand if very 
hot. Perhaps this hat was intended for 
those whose hands are already occupied — 
porters carrying burdens, bakers pushing 
carts, or cricketers when fielding or batting 
(Fitf. 5). 

The next hat on my list goes in for being 




strong, if nothing else ; it is made of tin, 
copper, or other metal. One can imagine 
the unearthly din and clatter there would 
b^ about one's head 
during a sharp hail or 
rain storm. 

The next hat is 
patented by a scientific 
gentleman. His hat 
may be described as a 
medicinal or surgical 
hat. But let him de- 
scribe it in his own 
words : — 

" My invention con- 
sists in the introduction 
into coverings for heads 
of such combinations 
of metals or materials 
as shall form with the 
moist skin during the 
wearing of such cover- 
ings a voltaic or gal- 
vanic combination, and 
develop a current of 
electricity, the electrical ri 

current so developed 
curing or relieving headaches or other 
nervous or painful affections in the head 
of the wearer." 

What a delightful hat to wear at the 
Royal Academy or other picture gallery, 
for these are the places which one never 
leaves without a headache. The doctors, 
I am told, have discovered the headache 
caused by looking at pictures to be quite 
unique, and I hear it has been given a name 
all to itself to distinguish it from others. 
Why should not the Royal Academy have 
a counter where these medicinal hats could 
be had on loan, after the manner of opera 
glasses at the theatres? or, failing this, 
might not private enter- 
prise satisfy the wants of 
the public ? I give this 
suggestion away to the 
street newspaper boy or to 
the street toy-seller, or any 
other person who cares to 
have it. Of course, if these 
hats were found satisfactory, 
they would be worn at all 
times, and in all places, 
whenever one had a head- 
ache ; indeed, a neuralgic 
person would have a hat- 
peg fixed over his bed with 
the hat hung on, ready for 

instant use. 

The next hat is not of such an ambitious 
nature as the last ; it is to be used more as a 
preventive than a corrective. In the words 
of the inventor, " It is 
a cap which ensures 
safety, ease, and com- 
fort to the wearer when 
travelling ; it consists 
of one, two, or three 
air-tight circular tubes 
to be inflated when 
required for use." In 
this we have some- 
thing very novel if 
nothing else, and suited 
to those people who 
tell you all they want 
is comfort, and that the 
look of the thing is 
nothing to them. What 
a curious aspect our 
railway stations would 
assume if these hats 
were generally worn ! 
Old gentlemen short of 
wind would tip a porter 
and get their hats blown 
out for them ; porters would carry a pair 
of" bellows hung from their belt expressly 
for this purpose. On cold days, when it 
would be dangerous to remove the cap from 
the head, passengers would blow each other 
out. What an animated scene ! (Fig. 6.) 

The next hat on my list is one intended 
to protect the eyes from the sun and dust. 
Just over the brim we have two apertures 
for the eyes, filled with glass, gauze, or 
other suitable material. When the wearer 
is annoyed with the dust or sun, or 
in the distance views an enemy or dun 
(I see [ have lapsed into poetry), he simply 
pulls his hat down to his ears and goes on 

^□Bnal from 

:^ b 


his way rejoicing (Fig. 7). Another inventor, 
apparently much struck with this invention, 
improves upon it. He makes the body of 
the hat in two parts, the upper part resting 
on the head, the lower part, which carries 
the brim, sliding over the other ; it is 

provided with apertures and screens as 
before described. 

The next novelty is a reversible hat 
having a cloth surface for fine weather, a 
waterproof surface for wet weather. The 
next has an attachment for striking matches ; 
the next contains a mirror. Then we have 
a hat constructed in such a manner that it 
will fit any sized head — a useful piece of 
clothing for large and graduating families. 

The inventor we now come to has 
apparently been in a wholesale business, 
where he has got into the habit of doing 
things on a large and exhaustive scale, for 
he takes out protection for a hat with a 
brim or peak adapted to receive certain 
useful articles, namely, a look- 
ing-glass, comb, pencil, &c. 
But this is nothing compared 
to the invention of another 
gentleman who patents a walk- 
ing-stick which contains a pistol, 
powder, ball, screw, telescope, 
pen, ink, paper, pencil, knife, 
and drawing materials ! We 
can imagine this latter gentle- 
man arriving at a sea-side 
lodgings without any luggage ; 
we can see the landlady court- 
eously, but firmly, refusing to 
take him in ; we can see our in- 
ventor unscrewing his walking- 
stick, and exhibiting his belong- 
ings to the astonished landlady. 
"Here, my good woman, is my luggage ;" 
a smile from the landlady, and admission 
graciously granted (Fig. 8). Certainly these 
articles would be useless as toilet and 

sleeping requisites, but why not have a 
Saturday to Monday walking-stick, to con- 
tain night-shirt, razor, sponge, tooth-brush 
and shaving-brush ? 

There is one more hat to be mentioned, 
and we must then get on to other garments. 
This hat has a removable brim 
which can be folded up and put in 
the pocket ; we are not told what 
advantage the wearer gains by getting 
rid of his brim in this curious and 
eccentric manner, but perhaps the 
hat is one meant more particularly 
for members of the conjuring pro- 
fession ; though it would certainly 
be useful to a person paying an after- 
noon call necessitating a hot and 
sunny walk. He would travel with 
the brim on ; on approaching the 
house the brim would be taken off 
and concealed, and he would ring 
the bell clothed in an ordinary hat. 

In looking through these specifications, 
we find collars, gloves, stays, and crinolines 
have received the most attention. The latter 
seem to have exercised the brain of the 
inventor to a dangerous extent ; the great 
problem was to construct a crinoline which 
would permit the wearer to sit down in 
comfort, to enter a vehicle, and to pass 
through narrow places. Some of the con- 
trivances and dodges to attain these ends 
to the uninitiated sound most complicated. 
Strings and pulleys are freely used ; I have 
only space to describe one of these inventions, 
I give it in the inventor's own words : — 
" The crinoline is made of light air-tight 

material, capable of collapsing, and having 
a small aperture in the upper part, in order 
that thereto may be adapted a minute pair 
of bellows of a very slender form ; a second 





aperture allows for the emission of air when 
ladies shall desire to sit down/ 1 

The next invention will tie of interest to 
military men, to those fond of camping out, 
and travellers generally. Listen to the 
words of the inventor : — "My invention is 
an improved military cloak ; the body of the 
cloak is nearly circular, a hood is fixed to 
the neck portion, sleeves are sewn to the 
body." Such a cloak, we are informed, 
forms an excellent close tent. The cloak 
can be suspended by the hood, holes can be 
made in the lower edge of the cloak 
for the passage of pegs, and the cold 

front part of the skirt can be unbuttoned 
and buttoned back behind, forming swallow 
tails. Thus dressed the wearer can accept 
an invitation to dinner at a moment's 
notice. A white tie he could always carry 
with him, so as to be ready for any emer- 

Another frock coat is described which 
can be turned inside out and worn either 

flere is another coat, which ensures you 

may be kept out by means of the customary 
buttons and buttonholes. 

On the first blush this sounds rather a 
good idea, and almost practicable, till the 
thing is looked into more closely. We then 
find that the cloak must either be very, very 
large for the wearer, or, on the other hand, 
the tent must be very, very small for the 
occupant. To put it graphically, we have the 
choice of two sorts as depicted here (Fig. 9). 
We are not told what happens to the 
sleeves when used as a tent ; perhaps one 
is stuffed with straw to keep out the cold, 
the other being used as a chimney or ven- 
tilator ! 

Another tent coat is formed by button- 
ing three coats together, each one being 
one-third of a circle in shape. Such a tent 
would be all very well for two of the men, 
but the third, I am afraid, would have to sit 
outside, to say nothing of the dog, supposing 
there was one. 

Almost as marvellous as the above is 
the description of a coat, the skirts of 
which are attached to the body in such a 
manner that whilst it is being worn it may 
be readily converted into a frock coat, a 
dress coat, a hunting coat. Apparently the 

a soft and dry seat wherever you may sit 
down (Fig. 10) — a peculiarly appropriate 
coat for a third-class smoking carriage : 
"In the back part of the coat there is 
placed, between the lining and the cloth, a 
bag or cushion, which, when inflated, forms 
a seat. A small tube of indiarubber extends 
from the bag to the side pocket." Fancy 
travelling by train, not knowing such a 
thing as this' coat existed, and seeing your 
fellow passengers gradually rising higher 
and higher in the world on the seat oppo- 
site to you — how uncanny it would be ! 





Here are a few more curiosities : — A 
child's bib with a trough attached, the whole 
made of some waterproof material ; apock&t 
which cannot be 
picked ; a muff 
and boa filled with 
air, to save you 
from a watery- 
grave ; cuffs and 
collars made of 
steel, painted or 
enamelled white ; 
trousers with 
double legs — on 
the outer legs get- 
ting soiled or be- 
spattered you tuck 
them up, and be 
hold a clean pair. 
This arrangement 
would be only suit- 
able, I should say, 
when worn with 
an overcoat. Last, but not least, 
iff sham calves in stockings. 

Under the head of umbrellas and walking 
sticks we get some very laughable inventions. 

One is an umbrella, which, in some 
wonderful way, is converted into a walking- 
stick, and so formed that a spear can be 
attached, when it is useful as a weapon of 
offence and defence. I recommend it to 
elderly ladies in the dog-days, as a protec- 
tion from sun and mad dogs. 

The next invention is a rain absorber, to 
prevent rain from running down from hats 
and umbrellas. The 
absorber is formed 
cither of uncovered 
sponges or of sponges 
covered by a fabric. 
We are naively told 
that the absorber can 
be readily removed 
from the article, 
squeezed, and re- 

We next come to an 
article which the in- 
ventor has named (take 
a long breath and shut 


your eyes) the " Rhabdoskidophorus." 
This is an umbrella which takes to pieces ; 
the silk and ribs being hidden within the 
stick, it is thus 
transformed into 
a stout walking- 

Let me now 
bring to the notice 
of frequenters of 
the Row and riders 
generally an um- 
brella with tele- 
scopic handle, 
which is attached 
to the saddle be- 
hind in such a 
manner that it can 
be adjusted to any 
angle. When not 
in use, the silk 
lm portion can be re- 

The next umbrella, to use a vulgarism, 
" takes the cake." It is one provided with 
windows, so that the occupant or user 
thereof can see where he is going. Thanks 
lo ihi* umbrella, a collision is avoided 
(Fig. ii). 

Walking-sticks have been patented with 
all manner of attachments on them and 
within them. Among other things men- 
tioned we find almanacks, thermometers, 
pistols, pipes, perfumes, inkpots, and 

The feet come last, and form a fitting end 
to this article. There 
is only one invention 
worth mentioning, 
which consists of metal 
plates which are at- 
tached to the heels of 
boots, thus protecting 
the trousers from 
splashes of mud (Fig. 


1 he moral of all this 
is, that every man can 
be an inventor, but not 
necessarily a successful 

Original from 

— jrt 


tepafe^ar^ A N Y years ago there lived in 
" ES^S^ 5 a hermitage a holy monk. 
J SVewZ r From all the villages around, 
(2 ^\vM 1 the people, mostly poor 
jsJ ys^vS] p- labourers, were in the habit 

S3e= 3 of coming to him on Sundays 

and festivals to hear him say mass for them. 
These good people used to bring little offer- 
ings of food for the support of the hermit 
during the week. 

One Sunday, after his congregation had 
departed, the monk perceived a man laden 
with traps and nets for catching birds, cross- 
ing the field before the hermitage. The 
good monk went out to him. 

" Where do you come from ? " he in- 
quired ; u and what are you going to do, 
my son ? " 

u I live some miles from here, good 
father," he replied, *' and I have borrowed 
a few nets and traps to try to catch some 
doves to sell, so as to get a little butter for 
our bread ; for with that and a draught of 
water from the spring my wife and I are 
satisfied ; or else to get some work to do, 
that I may earn enough for our support, 
for we have neither bread nor a single 

farthing to buy it," 
The hermit took 

the man into his 

hermitage, and gave him the 
little offerings of food which 
had been brought that morn- 
ing by the villagers, leaving Providence 
to provide for his own simple wants. 

"Brother," he said, "take this for 
yourself and your wife ; and if you 
want money I will give you some. But 
you must first tell me which you choose, 
to earn a single coin honestly, or a hundred 

The poor man hesitated, for great was 
the temptation. 

''I will consult with my wife," he said 
at last, "and return to-morrow to inform 

With the food in his hands he returned 
to his miserable home, where he and his 
wife made an excellent meal, for which 
they returned thanks to Heaven. They then 
consulted together about the money, and, 
though the temptation was great to take 
the hundred coins, yet, being God-fearing 
folks, they decided upon taking the one 
coin honestly acquired, and let alone the 

The man accordingly returned to the 
hermit, and told him what they had 

The good monk gave him two half reals, 
" Take this money," he said : " and 
may Heaven prosper you." 

Full of joy the man departed. But on 
the road home, in a solitary spot, he en- 
countered two lads fighting desperately ; 
they were dealing each other terrible blows, 
and blood was streaming down their faces. 




The man rushed up to separate them, but 
all his efforts only served to make them 

" Why do you fight like this ? " he cried. 

M We are fighting for that stone," replied 
one of the lads ; M I saw it first ! " 

" No, you didn't," replied the other, " it 
vvas I, and it belongs to me 1 " And once 
more they fell to blows more desperate than 

The poor man, fearing that the quarrel 
might end fatally, cried out to them : — 

" Here, take each of you one of these 
coins, and let alone the stone ; it is of no 
value, for it is no bigger than a walnut. 
And be off with you I " 

The lads were glad to take the money, 
and ran away, thinking themselves lucky 
to make so good a bargain. 

His wife was at the cottage door im- 
patiently awaiting her husband. Great 
was her disappointment when all he brought 
her was a stone. 

" Well, to be sure ! " she cried, after he 
had recounted what had taken place, " I am 
disappointed." And, taking the little stone, 
she threw it into a corner of the room. 

" Dear wife," replied the man, M do not 
take it so to heart. The money was spent 
in a good work ; in making peace between 
the children of our neighbours." 

His wife at length became more recon- 
ciled to the loss, considering that after all 
he had done right to 
make peace between 
their neighbours' sons 
at any cost. Not many 
minutes after, the 
parents of the two lads 
came to thank the man 
for having separated 
the boys, They also 
thanked him for the 
money he had given 
to the boys, for' they 
knew he sorely needed 
it himself. Each of the 
parents gave him. a 
present for his friendly 
service ; and from that 
day they always treated 
him most kindly, and 
often gave him little 
jobs to do, so that the 
poor couple never 
wanted bread. 

Not long afterwards, 
it happened that the 
King's Ambassador 

passed that way, with a great Tetinue of 
officials, secretaries, and servitors, and it 
fell out that, night coming on, the Ambas- 
sador decided upon taking up his quarters 
in the village. 

The village inns were small, and could 
not afford accommodation for so large a 
retinue, and the various cottagers were 
asked to take in one or more of the ser- 
vants. Among those who gave lodgings to 
the retinue were our good couple, who took 
in a lodger, for whom they were paid hand- 
somely. The wife quickly prepared a clean, 
tidy bed, and did her best to make things 

The guest, being tired, was soon fast 
asleep. Towards morning he awoke, and 
was surprised to see the chamber bathed 
in a resplendent light. Knowing well that 
the people of the house could not afford n 
lamp or candles, he arose to find out whence 
proceeded this unusual brilliancy. Great 
was his astonishment to find that it pro- 
ceeded from a small stone in the corner of 
the room, which, as the sun struck on it, 
sent out rays of vivid light. He took up 
the stone, and, believing it to be of great 
value, took it to the Ambassador. 

When the nobleman examined the stone, 
he admired it greatly, and desired its owner 
to be setit for in order to learn all parti- 
culars about it. 

" Please your Excellency," said the poor 
man, " it is of no use to us, 
and if it pleases you, take it, 
for it only cost me a small 
coin ; " and he proceeded to 
relate how it had come into 
his possession. 




The Ambassador drew forth a heavy bag 
of money, and, taking out a handful of 
gold piece*, gave them to the man. 

"My good man," he said* ,l since you 
offer me the stone, I accept it gladly ; but 
as I am leaving the kingdom, and my ex- 
penses are very heavy, 1 cannot give you 
all that tt is worth, If it please Heaven, 1 
will return this way, ani I will pay you 

The poor man did not like to accept so 
much gold for what he judged to be a 
worthless stone ; but on the nobleman's en^ 
treaty he took the money, and ran back to 
his wife, full of joy at his good fortune. 
Both husband and wife then went at once 
to the hermit to recount to him all that 
had taken place, and to offer him a tenth of 
the money. This he refused to take, but 
bade them return to the village and dis- 
tribute it in alms 
to the poor. They 
returned to the vil- 
lage accordingly, and 
did as the monk had 
bidden them. They _ 
also gave part of the j 
money to the parents J 
of the lads who had s| 
fought so desperately 1 
for the possession of 
the stone. The rest 
the man spent in 
purchasing a piece 
of land. 

This little plot of 
ground proved very 

fertile, and whatever Le planted produced a 
hundredfold. His trees were borne down 
by the weight of the fruit, which always 
fetched a good price. 

Years passed ere the Ambassador re- 
turned from the foreign country, where he 
had gained high honours and wealth. On 
passing the village again where he had 
obtained the stone, he inquired for the good 
man, and was told how he had prospered 
with the money he had given him, and was 
now a person of importance. 

On arriving at the Court of his sovereign 
he recounted to the King all that had taken 
place. The King was greatly pleased with 
the history of the honestly earned coin, 
and had the stone valued by the first 
jewellers of the kingdom, who all pro- 
nounced it to be a singularly valuable gem, 
A large sum was given to the Ambassador 
for it, and he was 
loaded with distinc- 
tions and honours. 
The nobleman, 
wishing to show his 
gratitude for the 
honours conferred 
on him, sent hand- 
some presents to 
the good man and 
his wife. 

And so it came 
to pass that they, 
who had been 
honest, were now 
prosperous as 

Original from 

The Queer Side of Things. 


| HE attainment, 
by dint of supe- 
rior intellectual 
abilities, of any 
high position 
naturally implies 
some individua- 
lity of character 
— some departure 
from the stereo- 
typed mental con- 
stitution of the 

In a judge, for 
instance, we con- 
fidently expect 
this departure, 
and we get it, in 
one characteristic 
at any rate, to a remarkable extent ; and 
it is this judicial trait which we now 
propose to consider — one little slice or 
fragment of judge. We would not pre- 
sume to deal with an entire judge in 
so slight an ar- 
ticle as this ; for 
— never having 
acted as valet to 
one — we think of 
a judge with some- 
thing beyond re* 

The judicial 
trait we have to 
consider is Pro- 
gressive Inno- 
cence. In the 

ordinary human being the birthright of 
innocence is rapidly squandered, and 
person usually " knows too much " at 
the age of fifteen or so ; lie starts in- 
nocent and finishes knowing. But it 
seems to be quite otherwise with your 
judge ; we have never known a judge 
as an infant, and so cannot say whether 
he is born innocent. The earliest reli- 
able information about any given judge 
dates from his Eton or University days, and 
in his University days, at any rate, extreme 
innocence does not appear to be his chief 

But let us change the slide to a picture of 
his lordship seated upon his familiar and 
comfortable bench, and we see him clothed 
in innocence as with a garment, and 

muffled up to the eyes in overwhelming 
ingenuousness ! 

He who has read the law-court reports 
in the papers will have paused in amaze- 
ment at the simplicity of the questions put 
by his lordship to witnesses, to counsel, to 
the usher, to anyone who will take pity on 
his infantine unworldliness. 

The subject of cards will occur in 
the course of the evidence ; the ace 
of spades will be alluded to ; his 
lordship will look up mildly, 
blandly, almost timidly from his 
notes, and will lisp : 

"What is the ace 
of spades ? " 




"It is a caTd, m' lord," says Bulliwrag, 

" A card ?" prattles his lordship, in his 
pretty little taking way ; " a card is a thing 
people play with, is it not ? " and appears to 
be looking about for his rattle, 

" Yes, m' lord, 1 ' says the witness. 

"Is it the same as a visiting card — and a 
race card ? M says his lordship. 

" No, m' lord, not quite the same," says 
Badgeremm, O.C., in a soothing tone, 
apparently designed to get baby to sleep 
before he can ask any more questions, and 
my lord bends over his notes and writes 
down all his new information about cards, 
and gazes at it in delight. 

We cannot more clearly trace this 
remarkable evolution of innocence than by 

Some Account of the Career of Lord 

Justice Toddles, of Her Majesty's 

High Courts. 

( Compiled from the newspapers, and illus- 
trated by extracts from his Lordship's 

After figuring as one of the chief orna- 
ments of Eton, young Timothy Toddles- 
destined to be afterwards so well known to 
fame — entered upon his career at the Uni- 
versity, where his unremitting application 
and keen relish of learning, combined with 
a brilliant capacity and limitless power of 
assimilation, rapidly won the admiration 
and respect of his instructors, &c, &c. 

{Extract from his diary at that period.) 

"Feel just a few chippy this morning. 
Haven't been to roost since last Thursday. 
Dash wood and the other johnnies would 
stick at baccarat till breakfast every evening. 
Got fairly cleared out this journey ; and 
worst of it is, old Moss won't part another 
fiver, and Flickers dunning me to bail up 
over the Leger transaction. Blued every 
maravedi, and the ancestor not to be tapped 
again till the 15th, and then only for a 
century I 

" Sam Grobbs turned up with the rats. 
My terrier, Bob, had a little match on for a 
tenner with Dashwood's Nipper t and eased 
him of it with fifty-five seconds to the good. 
. . . Saw some sweet little play between 
Yarmouth Bloater and Bob Ribroaster,ofthc 
Three Stars. Bob led off grandly about 
the region of the Bloater's headlights, and 
dusk supervened after a few layers of it ; 
though the Yarmouth Practitioner did 
negotiate a little business connected with 

Bob's nibblers, some of which retired 
within and got digested. ..." 

Any person of insight, reading the above 
extract, will be irresistibly drawn to the 
conclusion that the study of letters did not 
so monopolise Mr. Toddles as to utterly 
banish some slight knowledge of the pur- 
suits and customs of the life around him. 
At that time, indeed, indications point to 
the idea that lie knew a thing or two — that 
he probably knew, at least by hearsay, the 
nature of the ace of spades. 

But a few years later we find a marked 
change in him — the Evolution ok Inno- 
cence has set in. A sudden call to the Bar 
has caused his moral sense to awaken, with 
a cry of horror, to the enormity of his pre- 

vious knowledge of a thing or two : he 
feels, with an absolute pang, how great a 
danger any knowledge of the flippant life 
of the age must always be to the pure soul 
of a pleader in the courts ; and we feel his 
thrill of horror and aversion when con- 
fronted with a witness possessed of such 
knowledge. Here is an extract from the 

The Learned Counsel {-with emotion) : 
" Cards ? Do you deliberately and unblush- 
iiigly stand here and tell this court that you 
are in the iutbft of playing cards ? " 




Witness: "I do occasionally take a 
hand.' 1 

The L.C. {wiping his brow) : " In point 
of fact, you deliberately admit — almost 
boast — that you are a card sharper ? Gen- 
tlemen, you will hardly forget that ! And 
the card you had in your hand was the ace 
of spades ? Exactly ! Now, gentlemen, I 
ask you to look at this witness — to try to 

able inclinations which can so stifle a 
man's purer and loftier nature as to 
allow him, unblushing and unrepentant, 
to hold in his hand not only a card — not 
only a court-card — but an ace, and that ace 
the ace of spades ! Gentlemen, we have 
heard of these things, but until this terrible 
moment, when this man stands before us 
in all his vileness, we have not realised 
them ; we have not grasped the fact that 
they exist ; that they are — how shall I 
utter the word ?—• «S*« / / / " (The learned 
counsel was at this point so overcome by 
emotion that he begged leave to sit down 
for a moment.) 

Such further light as may be needed is 
thrown upon this period of our Toddler's 
career by a few words from his diary of that 
date : — 

" Wiped Horse wig's eye nicely over the 
card case, and knocked his witnesses into a 
cocked hat. Got our costs, too, which I 
hardly expected the old boy would give us. 

realise that this man — this fellow creature 
(for he is still a fellow creature) — is capable, 
beneath his sleek and respectable exterior, 
of combining those base and degraded 
instincts — those revolting and deplor- 

n up i— 11 

f innocence." 



Dined with Horsewig in the evening, 
and cleared him out afterwards at 

More years pass, and the counsel (having 
become a Q,C) is called to the bench ; and 
the Evolution of Innocence is complete. 
The keenest eye would fail to recognise in 
that chubby and cherubic judge, seated in 



his lofty chair, and apparently pining for 
his feeding-bottle, the University student 
who knew a thing or two ! 

He is not filled with horror and aversion 
now at the mention of contaminating 
things ; bland innocence fills the air around 
him, and he is unconscious of the existence 
of good and evil. His toys are laid out on 
the little desk in front of him — his pen, his 
ink, and his paper. Near him sits his 
nurse, the clerk ; and all around are 
counsel, witnesses, jurymen, in attendance 
there solely to answer the artless questions 
which fall from his little rosy lips. It is 
an infant school— an idyll : it is sweetly 

"And what do people do with cards?" 
asks his lordship, 

" They play with them, ducky, " replies 
Bulliwrag, O.C. 

M Play with them ? " repeats his lordship, 
beginning to get restless, and rubbing his 
eyes ominously. "■ I want to get down and 
play. Isn't it lunch time ? " 

And the clerk hastily gets up, and hoists 
up his lordship just as he is slipping out of 
his chair, and pats him soothingly ; but he 
won't sit up and listen any more, and he 
worft understand what a card is, and he pouts 
until the barristers stop their ears in anxious 
anticipation ; and the usher takes up his 
lordship, and dances him up and down, and 

hurries him away to his private room and 
his bottle — of dry sherry. 

Can we have dreamed that we once 
encountered in a railway carriage an elderly 
gentleman of overwhelmingly innocent 
mien ? There he seemed to sit, sucking his 
umbrella handle, and, as we entered the 

compartment, he gazed at us with round 
eyes full of innocent delight, and crowed. 

" Fine day for the Ascot Cup," we re- 
marked ; and he took the handle from his 
mouth — leaving a little dewy drip on his 
chubby chin — and said, " Astot tup ? '" 

We explained, in language as simple as 
possible, the nature of the Ascot Cup con- 
test ; but his round blue eyes were full of 
puzzled wonder, and he loudly crowed again. 
Then we tried the Labour Commission, the 
short service system, and the bearings of 
the Jackson case on the future relations of 
husband and wife. Here he crowed loudly, 
rammed both his thumbs into his moutfi, 
and said : " Baby links yat 'ee decision in 
that case was as intrinsically bad in law as 
it was distinctly and perniciously opposed to 
those legal traditions which, though finding 
their basis in no legislative enactment, 
should, as nurturing the very root of all true 
social well-being, and forming, as they un- 
questionably do, the substructure of that 
order to which society owes its very essence 
and being — ahem ! " 

He stopped abruptly in confusion ; but 
instantly perceiving that he had gone too 





far for further dissimulation to be of any 
avail, he slowly closed one eye with an 
excruciating wink, and jerked his thumb 
three times over his left shoulder, 

" Innocent, my dear sir ? " he said. " We 
judges innocent ? All put on, sir — a mere 
trick of the trade. Merely done for effect, 

sir, as a foil to emphasise and contrast the 
depth of our erudition, and the grasp and 
subtlety of our reasoning when we come to 
the summing up. See ?— ahem ! " 

A stranger entered the compartment, and 
his lordship replaced his umbrella handle 
and crowed violently. 

G. F. Sullivan. 

Original from 



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Illustrated Interviews. 

No. IV. — MR. W. S. GILBERT. 

iFS*53S=|R. GILBERT lives in a little 
land of his own. There is 
1 j^QSfyg m nothing wanting to complete 
fd \B\yM P hi s miniature kingdom at 
^^Ml Grseme's Dyke, Harrow 

' - ' Weald. With a hundred and 

ten acres at his disposal, the most brilliant 
writer of irresistible satire of the day has 
laid down a healthy two miles of paths, 
which wend their way through banks of 
moss and ferns, avenues of chestnut trees 
and secluded valleys. You turn out of one 
pathway only to enter a diminutive forest ; 
again, and you are standing by the rushes 
and water weeds by the side of the old 
Dyke, which has run its course for two 
thousand years and more, spanned by 
rustic bridges ; and in one part, near the 
bathing house, is a statue of Charles II,, 
which originally stood years ago in Sohu- 
square. You may wander along a walk of 
roses and sweet brier, or admire the view 
from the observatory, where the owner 
enjoys his astronomical watchings. From 

another spot Windsor Castle is visible. 
Mr. Gilbert is a man of many minds. The 
verse of comic opera does not prevent him 
from watching the interests of his thorough- 
bred Jerseys — for there is a perfect home 
farm on the Gitbertian land, The hayricks 
look rich, the horses, the fowls, and the pigs 
seem "at home," and the pigeons — I am 
assured by Mr. Gilbert that he is using 
the utmost efforts to induce his feathered 
friends to adopt as their permanent address 
the fine and lofty house he has erected for 
them. The roofs of the vineries are heavy 
with great bunches, the peaches and necta- 
rines are fast assuming an appearance call- 
ing for a hasty "bite"; flowers, flowers 
are everywhere, and the bee-hives, green 
little wooden dwellings, with the bees 
crowding in and out, are pointed out by 
their owner as looking very much like 
small country theatres doing a "tremen- 
dous booking,' 

The house wis built for Mr. Goodall, 
R.A., from designs by Mr. Norman Shaw, 


R.A., and is from every aspect architectur- 
ally very fine. Many portions of it arc 
entirely covered with ivy — the entrance 
porch is surrounded by theclinging tendrils 
Here I met Mr, Gilbert. He is tall, stalwart, 

and handsome. He appears 
strung, and he is ; he looks 
determined. He frankly ad- 
mits that this characteristic has 
led success to him and him to 
success. His hair is grey, but 
the vigour of a young man is 
there. To hear him talk is to 
listen to the merry stream of 
satire which runs through his 
verse and lyrics. Imagine him 
declaring that he considers the 
butcher boy in the gallery the 
king of the theatre— the blue-smocked 
youth who, by incessant whistling and 
repeated requests to "speak up," revels 
in upsetting the managerial apple cart. 
Then try and realise Mr. Gilbert assuring 


one that what he 
writes ts nothing 
more nor less 
than "rump steak 
and onions ! " — a 
palatable concoc- 
tion of satisfying 
and seasoning in- 
gredients which 
is good enough 
to please the man 
of refinement in 
the stalls, and not 
too refined for 
the butcher boy 
in the gallery. 
" H.M.S. Pina- 
fore," "The 
Pirates," "The 
Mikado," and the 
lily-loving Bun- 
tharne and aesthe- 
tically inclined 
young maidens in 
*' Patience " rump steak and onions ! He 
has not — save at rehearsals — seen one of 
his own plays acted for seventeen years. 
Report says that, on " first nights," he 
wanders about muffled up, with his hat over 
his eyes, along the Thames Embankment, 
casting occasional glances in the direction 
of the water, and mentally measuring the 
height of Waterloo Bridge. Nothing of 
the kind. He goes to his club and smokes 
a cigar, and looks in at the theatre about 
eleven to see if there is " a call "; and he is 
seldom disappointed in the object of his 
visit. He is quite content to look in at the 

theatre and see that everything is safe for 
the curtain to rise, goes away, and returns 
at the finish. He is wise in believing that 
the presence of the author at such a time 
upsets the players, and deteriorates the 

We are in the entrance halt. Over the 
mantelpiece is a fine specimen of four- 
teenth century abbaster. By the window 
is a model of a man-of-war, sixteen feet in 
length. It is perfect in every detail, and a 
portion of it was specially constructed as a 
model of the set of the scene in ''H.M.S. 
Pinafore." Mr. Gilbert — who is an en- 
t h usiast i c yacht sin an — h ad 
the remaining forepart built 
when it was no longer 
wanted for theatrical pur- 
poses. The parrot in the 
corneT is considered to be 
the finest talker in England. 
It can whistle a hornpipe, 
and, if put to the test, could 
probably rattle off one of 
its master's patter songs. 

"The other parrot, who 
is a novice," points out 
Mr. Gilbert, ''belongs to 
Dr. Playfair. He is read- 
ing up with my bird, who 
takes pupils. 11 

Passing up the oaken 

staircase, the solidity of 

which is relieved by many 

a grand palm, a peep into 

Original from 



the billiard-room reveals 
on one side of the wall 
photos of all the charac- 
ters which have from 
time to time appeared 
in his operas. Over a 
long oak bookcase is a 
run of photos unique of 
their kind, including 
those of J, S. Clarke, 
Mrs. Stirling, Buck- 
stone, Compton, Chip- 
pendale, Herman Vezin, 
Henry J. Byron, and 
Irving and Hare, taken 
seventeen years ago. 
A little statuette of 
Thackeray, by Boehm, 
is near at hand, and 
here is another of the 
dramatist's great friend, 
T. W, Robertson, the 
writer of "Caste," 
''School," "Society," 
and other plays insepar- 
able from his name. 

The drawing - room 
wasMr.Goodall's studio. 
It is a magnificent apart- 
ment, rich in old china, 

great vases soo years 
old, antique cabinets, 
and treasured knick- 
knacks innumerable — 
for the present owner is 
a great lover of curios, 
and is an inveterate 
K hunter " — and exqui^ 
sitely furnished. The 
fire-places are crowded 
with ferns and flowers. 
Near the corner, where 
Mr. Goodall was one 
time wont to sit and 
paint sunsets, is a curious 
old musical clock which 
plays twelve airs. It 
is 150 years old. Mr. 
Gilbert sets the hands 
going, and to a musical 
tick — tick— tick a regi- 
ment of cavalry pass 
over the bridge, boats 
row along the water, 
and ducks swim about. 
Frank Holl's picture of 
the dramatist is here, 
and several by Duncan, 
the famous water-colour 
oainter, whose brush was 

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only responsible for a single example in 
oils, possessed by Mr. Gilbert ; others by 
Boughton, Mr. and Mrs, Perugini, and 
Adrian Stokes. Here is, also, an early 
example of Tenniel. It was bought un- 
finished. Mr. Gilbert met the artist one 
day, and described it to him. He remem- 
bered it, though drawn half a century ago. 
Tenniel took it back, and finished his work 
only a few months ago. This Httle satin wood 
cabinet came from Carlton House, and 
there is a curious 
story regarding 
the manufacture 
of a fine Japanese 
cabinet of 200 
years ago. In 
those days when- 
ever a child was 
born to a wealthy 
Jap an order was 
given for a cabi- 
net to be made. 
It took fifteen 
years to manu- 
facture, so fine 
was the work- 
manship, and it 
was presented to 
the child on his 
fifteenth birth- 

Under a glass 
case are a pair 
of marble hands 

joined together, 
by Boehm. They 
are those of Mrs. 
Crutchley, who 
danced in the re- 
cent Guards' bur- 
lesque at Chelsea, 
modelled when 
she was eight 
years old. Mr. 
Gilbert handles a 
fifteenth century 
carved ivory 
tankard. It is 
five inches in 
diameter, and 
carved out of a 
solid tusk. Un- 
fortunately it is 
broken. When 
Miss Julia Neil- 
son was making 

eto«*Ak heT first apP^r- 
ance in " Comedy 
and Tragedy," a tankard was wanted. It 
had been overlooked at ihe theatre. Mr. 
Gilbert was present, rushed off in a cab 
to Kensington, where ha was then living, 
and got back in time, Miss Neilson so 
entered into her part (and small blame to 
her) that, quite forgetting the valuable 
goblet she had in her hand, she brought 
it down with a bang on the table with 
this result. 

The dining-room contains some fine 




work in oak. A massive Charles I. side- 
board, dated 1631, was made for Sir Thomas 
Holt, a cavalier, who murdered his own 
cook in a fit of passion. He was charged 
"that he tooke a cleever and hytt hys 
cookc with the same upon ye hedde, and so 
clave hys hedde that one syde thereof fell 
\ippone nne of hys shoulders and the other 
syde on ye other shoulder." It was, how- 
ever, ingeniously argued that although the 
indictment stated that the halves of the 
cook's head had fallen on either shoulder, it 
was not charged against him that the cook 
had been killed, and on this technicality Sir 
Thomas escaped. There are some valuable 
oil paintings here, too — a fine example of 
C. Van Everdingen. The only other work 
of his in England is in the messroom 
of the Honourable Artillery Company. 
There are also fine works by Giorgione, 
Van der Kappelle, Tintoretto, Maes, and 

The library — where we sat together talk- 
ing — has one distinctive curiosity. It 
opens out on to the lawn, and its white 

Salvator Rosa, Rubens, Andrea del Sarto, 
and others, and on top of the bookcases 
are arranged seventy heads, representing 
all sorts and conditions of character typical 
of India. They are made of papier-mache, 
and were brought home from India by 
Mr. Gilbert, whither he had wandered 
in search of new pastures foT plot and 
fresh ideas, so that, should he ever write 
an Indian opera, the company engaged 
would find an excellent guide to making 
up thetr faces from the figures. On 
the table — in the centre of the room — 
amongst the flowers, are portraits of some of 
the dramatist's protege's, so to speak. No 
man is more far-seeing than he. He can 
single out talent, and, having found it, he 
encourages the possessor. No one has 
been asked more frequently, " Should I go 
on the stage ? " He calls for a sample of the 
applicant's abilities, pronounces judgment, 
and those who have heard his " don't " 
were as wise in refraining from seeking for 
fame from Thespis as those who welcomed 
his " go " and have acted on his advice. 

enamel bookcases contain close upon four Among many who made their first appear. 

thousand volumes out of a compact stock of ances in his pieces are Mrs. Bernard Beere, 

some five thousand works scattered about Mr. Wyatt, Miss Jessie Bond, Mr. Corncy 

the house. All round the apartment are Grain, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Miss Leonora 

drawings by A. Caracci, Watteau, Lancret, Braham, Miss Brand 1 am. Miss Julia Ncilsnn, 




Miss Lily Han bury, Miss Alma Murray, and 
Mr George Grossinith. 

" Grossmith," said Mr. Gilbert, u applied 
to Sir Arthur Sullivan first. Sullivan was 
pleased, thought him the very man for the 
part of John Wellington Wells in ' The 
Sorcerer,' and so did I. You see, when 
making an engagement, the composer tests 
the applicant vocally, whilst 1 try him 
histrionically. Previous to that Grossmith 
had done nothing, save in the way of 
entertainments at young men's societies 
and mechanics' institutes. He didn't want 
to offend them — 
what would I ad- 
vise ? ' Go on 
the stage, 1 I said, 
' and you'll make 
such a success as 
to render your- 
self quite inde- 
pendent of them.' 
I think he has. 

"Then in the 
'Trial by Jury' — 
one of my early 
works, which I 
consider one of 
the best, and in 
which the Judge 
was played by Sir 
Arthur Sullivan's 
dead — the fore- 
man of the jury 
was played by a 
gentleman who 
only had a couple 
of lines to sing. 
But whenever he 
opened his mouth 
the audience 
roared. The es- \™-t fi 

timable foreman 

of the twelve good men and true on that 
occasion was Mr. W. S. Penley. Just a 

It is post time, and on the day of my 
visit he had just finished the libretto of his 
new comic opera. He weighs the great 
blue envelope in his hand, and, after the 
servant has left the room, flings himself into 
hts favourite chair, and suggestively re- 
marks, " There goes something that will 
either bring me in twenty thousand pounds 
or twenty thousand pence ! " And a 
favourite chair with Mr, Gilbert is an 
article of furniture not to be despised. 
It is of red leather, and he has used the 

same size and pattern for a quarter of a 
century. He takes it with him wherever he 
goes, for he never writes at a desk. When 
working he sits here with a stool exactly 
the same height, and stretching himself on 
these, he writes on a pad on his lap. 

I asked him if he would write me a few 
original verses for publication in thisarticle. 
" Thank you, very much," said he, " but I'm 
afraid I must ask you to excuse me. When 
I have just finished a piece I feel for a few 
days that I am absolutely incapable of 
further effort, I always feel that I am quite 
' written out.' At 
first this impres- 
sion used to dis- 
tress ine seriously 
— however I have 
learnt by experi- 
ence to regard it 
as a ' bogie,' wh ich 
will yield to exor- 
cism. This, how- 
ever, is quite at 
your service ; " 
and he crossed to 
a recess by the 
window, and from 
a heap of papers 
took out a sheet. 
It was a couple of 
delightful verses, 
left over from 
u The Gondo- 
liers,' 1 written in 
his best style, and 
seen by no one 
till this moment. 
sung them in the 
car of the Grand 
Inquisitor, when 
T FEE - he commands the 

two kings of 
Barataria — one of whom the fair Tessa 
loves— to leave their lovers and rule their 
kingdoms. The following are the verses, 
the second being given in fac-simile : — 

" Good sir, I wish lo speak politely — 
Forgive me if my words are crude— 
1 find it hard to put it rightly 

Without appearing to be rude. 
] mean to say, — you're old and wrinkled — 

It's rather blunt, but it's the truth — 
With wintry snow your hair is sprinkled : 
What can you know of Love and Youth ? 
Indeed I wish to speak politely ; 

But, pray forgive me, truth is I ruth : 
Yfiu're old rsnJ— T^rdon me— unsightly, 
Whin ran you know of Love and Youth ! 




ty fan*. nu~ fa&tUvf ' kJL oajl jlaOJ 

(M %ouu Jkav ia4U-. j hul. /buU) 

dud, fkt£ U&J-hdU** inoA* Tpi*L I 

%*» M^i/ 7 ^ ^rr^u^f' stub. 'UuUuUal. 

Jitd* bjuL fit /ttia. ¥■ hr&a VtcutU**. • 
iHlAcau (fu bust* A itrtu. h ^ndfc / 

" My life ? Date of birth, November 18, 
1836. Birthplace, 17, Southampton -street, 
Strand, in the house of my grandfather, who 
had known Johnson, Garrick, and Reynolds, 
and who was the last man in London, I 
believe, who wore Hessian boots and a pig- 
tail. I went to school at Ealing, presided 
over by Dr. Nicholas — a pedagogue who 
appears more than once in Thackeray's 
pages as ' Dr. Tickle-us of Great Ealing 
School.' I was always writing plays for 
home performance, and at eighteen wrote a 
burlesque in eighteen scenes. This we.3 
offered to every manager in London, and 
unanimously rejected. I couldn't under- 
stand why at the time — I do now. I was 
intended for the Royal Artillery, and read 
up during the Crimean War. Of course, 
it came to an end just as I was prepared to 
go up for examination. No more officers 
were required, and further examinations 
were indefinitely postponed until I was over 
age. I was offered a line commission, but 
declined ; but eventually, in 1868, I was 
appointed Captain of the Royal Aberdeen- 
shire Highlanders (Militia), a post I held for 
sixteen years. I was clerk in the Privy 
Council for five miserable years, took my 
B.A. degree at the London University, 
and was called to the bar of the Inner 

Temple in 1863. I was at the bar four 
years, and am now very deservedly raised 
to the Bench — but only as a Justice of the 

"I was not fortunate in my clients. 
I well remember my first brief, which 
was purely honorary. I am a tolerably 
good French scholar, and was employed 
to interpret and translate the conversations 
and letters between attorney, leading coun- 
sel, and client — a Parisian. It was at 
Westminster. The Frenchman, who was 
a short, stout man, won his case, and he 
looked upon me as having done it all. 
He met me in the hall, and, rushing up 
to me, threw his arms round my neck 
and kissed me on both cheeks. That was 
my first fee. 

"On another occasion I defended an old 
lady who was accused of picking pockets. 
On the conclusion of my impassioned 
speech for the defence, she took off a heavy 
boot and threw it at my head. That was 
my second fee. By the way, I subsequently 
introduced the incident into an article, 
' My Maiden Brief,' which appeared in The 
Comhill Magazine. 

" I joined the Northern Circuit, and 
attended assizes and sessions at Liverpool 
and Manchester. Perhaps a dozen guinea 




briefs, but nothing substantial. The cir- 
cumstances attending my initial brief on 
circuit I am not likely to forget. I was 
to make my maiden speech in the pro- 
secution of an old Irishwoman for stealing 
a coat. Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft and the 
members of the Prince of Wales's com- 
pany, then on tour, were present on the 
Bench, and I am sorry to say, at my invita- 
tion. No sooner had I got up than the old 
dame, who seemed to realise that I was 
against her, began shouting, 'Ah, ye divil, 
sit down. Don't listen to him, yer honour I 
He's known in all the slums of Liverpool. 
Sit down, ye spalpeen. He's as drunk as a 
lord, yer honner — begging your lordship's 
pardon.' Whenever I attempted to resume 
my speech, I was flooded by the torrent of 
the old lady's eloquence, and I had at last 
to throw myself on the protection of the 
Recorder, who was too convulsed with 
laughter to interfere. Mrs. Bancroft says 
in her memoirs that I never got that 
maiden speech off, but in that she is mis- 
taken. The old lady had three months. 

" My first lines appeared in Fun — 
Henry J. Byron was the editor then. He 
asked me to send him a column of stuff with 
a half-page block every week. Well, I did 
not think it possible to get fresh ideas week 
by week ; but I accepted it, and continued 
writing and illustrating for six years, though 
at the end of every seven days I always felt 
written out for life, just as I do now. 
My first play was ' Dulcamara, 1 produced 
at the St. James's Theatre by Miss Her- 
bert. Tom Robertson and I were great 
chums, and he, being unable to write her 

the Christmas piece, 
was good enough to 
say he knew the very 
man for it and recom- 
mended me. I wrote 
it in ten days, re- 
hearsed it a week ; it 
ran five months, and 
has been twice re- 
vived. No arrange- 
ment was made about 
the price to be paid, 
and after it had been 
produced Mr.Emden, 
Miss Herbert's acting 
manager, asked me 
how much I expected 
to receive for the 
piece. I reckoned it 
out as ten days' work 
at three guineas a 
day, and replied, ' Thirty guineas,' 

" ' Oh 1 ' said Emden, ' we don't deal in 
guineas — say pounds.' 

"I was quite satisfied with the price, 
took his cheque and gave a receipt. Then 
Emden quietly turned to me and said — 

" ' Take my advice as an old stager. 
Never sell as good a piece as this for £$o 

" I took his advice ; I never have. 
u Then I commenced to write for the 
Royalty and Old Queen's Theatres. 'La 
Vivandiere ' was one of these ; and at 
various times ' An Old Score,' ' Ages Ago,' 
' Randall's Thumb,' and ' Creatures of 
Impulse ' appeared. These were followed 
by 'The Palace of Truth,' and 'The 
Wicked World.' ' Pygmalion and Ga- 
latea,' which took me six months to 
write, was produced in 1871. 'Sweet- 
hearts' came out in 1874, and 'Broken 
Hearts ' two years later. I consider the 
two best plays I ever wrote wera * Broken 
He ^.rts ' and a version of the Faust legend 
called 'Gretchen.' I took immense pains 
over my ' Gretchen,' but it only ran 
a fortnight. I wrote it to please myself, 
and not the public. It seems to be the fate 
of a good piece to run a couple of weeks, 
and a bad one a couple of years — at least, it 
is so with me. Here is an instance of it : — 
" ' The Vagabond ' was produced at the 
Olympic, with Henry Neville and Miss 
Marion Terry in the cast. I was behind 
during the first act, and everything went 
swimmingly — author, actors, and audience 
delighted. I remained during half of the 
second act, whs.. Charles Reade put his hand 




on my shoulder, and exclaimed, 'Gilbert, its 
success is certain.' 'Ah, but,' said I, ' there's 
the third act to come ! ' * The third act ? ' 
said Reade, who had been present at my 
rehearsals. ' The third act's worthy of 
Congreve ! ' That was enough for me. 
Off I went to my elub> and returned 
to the theatre at eleven ; as I passed 
through the stage-door, I heard one of 
the carpenters say to the hall-keeper, as 
he passed, " Bloomin' failure, Bill," He 
was quite right. The whole of the third 
act had been performed in dumb show ! 
That was fourteen years ago ; ' and yet, 
strange to say, only the other day I received 
a letter from young Mr. Wallack in New 
York, saying he had found the manuscript 
of a play called 'The Vagabond,' and, 
feeling sure that it would be extraordinarily 
successful, if produced, wanted to know 
what was my price for the piece. He knew 
nothing of its melancholy history. 

11 My operatic work has been singularly 
successful — owing largely, of course, to the 
invaluable co-operation of Sir Arthur 
Sullivan. When Sullivan and I first 
determined to work together, the bur- 
lesque stage was in a very unclean 
state. We made up our minds to do all 
in our power to wipe out the grosser 
dement, never to let an offending word 
escape our characters, and never allow 

From a rhato, .'...; 

a man to appear as a woman or rice 

" My first meeting with Sullivan was 
rather amusing. I had written a piece with 
Fred Clay, called 'Ages Ago/ and was re- 
hearsing it at the Old Gallery of Illustra- 
tion. At the same time I was busy on my 
1 Palace of Truth,' in which there is a 
character, one Zoram^ who is a musical 
impostor. Now, I am as unmusical as any 
man in England. I am quite incapable of 
whistling an air in tune, although I have a 
singularly good ear for rhythm. I was 
bound to make Zoram express his musical 
ideas in technical language, so I took up my 
' Encyclopaedia Britannica,' and, turning to 
the word ' Harmony,' selected a suitable 
sentence and turned it into sounding blank 
verse. Curious to know whether this 
would pass muster with a musician, I said 
to Sullivan (who happened to be present at 
rehearsal, and to whom I had just been 
introduced), ' I am very pleased to meet 
you, Mr. Sullivan, because you will be able 
to settle a question which has just arisen 
between Mr. Clay and myself. My con- 
tention is that when a musician who is 
master of many instruments has a musical 
theme to express, he can express it as per- 
;ect5y upon the simple tetrachord of 
Mercury (in which there are, as we all 
know, no diatonic intervals whatever) as 
upon the more 
elaborate dis- 
diapason (with 
the familiar four 
tetrachords and 
the redundant 
note) which (I 
need not remind 
you) embraces in 
its simple con- 
sonance all the 
single, double, 
and inverted 

" He reflected 
for a moment, 
and asked me to 
oblige him by re- 
peating my ques- 
tion. I did so, 
and he replied 
that it was a very 
nice point, and 
he would like to 
think it over be- 
'fore giving a de- 
finite reply. That 



Fjvia a t%M*. tjfj 

took place about twenty years ago, and I 
believe he is still engaged in hammering it 

Not the least interesting part of my day 
with Mr. Gilbert was in having his methods 
of working explained. Mr, Gilbert's tact 
and unequalled skill as a stage manager 
are well known, but he explained to me 
a decidedly novel secret which undoubt- 
edly greatly assists him in his perfect 
arrangements of mise-en-sccnc. He has 
an exact model of the stage made to 
half-inch scale, showing every entrance and 
exit, exactly as the scene will appear at the 
theatre. Those shown in the illustrations 
represent the two sets which will be seen 
at the Lyric Theatre when his new opera is 
produced. Little blocks of wood are made 
representing men and women — the men are 
three inches high, and the women two 
and a half inches. These blocks are painted 

in various colours 
to show the 
different voices. 
The green and 
white striped 
blocks may be 
" tenors n ; the 
black and yellow 
"sopranos' 1 ; the 
red and green t 
soon. With this 
before him, and 
a sheet of paper, 
Mr.Gilbcrt works 
out every single 
position of his 
characters, giving 
them their proper 
places on the 
model stage, and 
he is thus enabled 
to go down to re- 
hearsal prepared 
to indicate to 
every principal 
and chorister his proper place in the scene 
under consideration. 

His subjects are often the outcome of 
pure accident. "The Mikado" was 
suggested by a huge Japanese execu- 
tioner's sword which hung in his library — 
the identical sword which Mr. Grossmith 
used to carry on the stage as Kq-Kq. 
" The Yeomen of the Guard " was sug- 
gested by the beefeater who serves as an 
advertisement of the Tower Furnishing 
Company at Uxbridge Railway Station. 

A rather curious and certainly unique 
fact in dramatic authorship, and one that 
is without precedent in the annals of the 
stage, is that Mr. Gilbert's name has 
appeared in the London play bills without 
a single break for nearly twenty -four years. 
On July i the spell was broken by the 
termination of his connection with the 
Savoy. Harry How. 

The P. L, M. Express. 

From the French ok Jacques Normand. 

SHERE was a general astonish- 
ment in our little circle of 
friends when we heard of 
the approaching marriage of 
Valentin Sincere. What ! 
he ? — the hardened celibate ! 
the Parisian sceptic, rebelling against all 
matrimonial ideas !— the joyous free-liver 
who had a hundred times swore that he 
would never have anything to do with it ! 
Valentin, after all, was going to join the 
great brotherhood ! And, of all women, 
whom was he go- 
ing to marry ? — 
a widow [ We 
were bewildered. 

So, the first time 
I met him, I 
button-holed htm, 
and demanded ex- 

"I've hardly 
time to speak to 
you — a heap of 
things to do. I 
have just come 
from the Mairic, 
and am on my 
way to Stern's, 
the engraver in 
the Passage du 
Panoramas, to get 
some invitation 
letters. If you'll 
go with me " 

you ! " I said. 

We were in 
front of the Made- 
leine. We passed 
down the boule- 
vards, arm in arm. 

"The story's a very simple one," he said. 
"Commonplace to the last degree ; but, 
since you want so much to know about 
it, here it is : — 

" In the month of February last I was 
going to Nice for the Carnival fetes. 1 
have the greatest aversion to travelling by 
night, and I therefore took the 8.55 morning 
train, due at midnight at Marseilles, where 
I proposed spending the following day with 

my friends, the Rombauds, who expected 
me to breakfast. The next morning I was 
going on to Nice, where I was to arrive at 
two o'clock in the afternoon. 

u At the station there was an excited 
crowd ; but, thanks to the proverbial 
obligingness of M. Regnoul, the station- 
master, I was able to secure a place in the 
only coupe in the train. The only other 
occupant was a gentleman with a red 
rosette in a button -hole of his overcoat — a 
gentleman of severe aspect, and with an 
administrative air, 
whose luggage 
consisted solely of 
a portfolio. As- 
suredly he was 
not going far with 
that outfit, and 
presently I should 
be alone. Alone ! 
the only thing to 
make a railway 
journey support- 
able ! 

" All the pas- 
sengers were in 
their places, and 
the train was 
about starting, 
when the sound 
of a dispute arose 
at the door. 

no ! ' said the voice 
of a woman , fresh 
in tone, and with 
an almost imper 
ceptible Southern 
accent. 'I ordered 
a sleeping - com - 
partment, and a 
sleeping-compartment I must have.' 

"'But, Madame, I have told you, we 
haven't one ! ' 

"'You ought to have carried out the 
instructions in my letter.' 

" ' We have not received any letter, 
Madame ! ' 

"'Have orefiTHI frfiffiriage put on, 



lalion number. Come, conic, make haste ; 
the train is about to start.' 

"'Well, I must have a place found for me,' 

"'I have offered you two, Madame, in 
the coupe.' 

'" There?' 

11 ' Yes, Madame — there ! ' 

" A little dark-haired woman appeared in 
the doorway, and instantly started back, as 
if in alarm, 

" 'There are two gentlemen in it ! ' 

" L Good heavens, Madame ! I can't give 
you a whole carriage to yourself ! ' 

"' Very well, then ; I will not go ! ' 

"'As you please. The train ts off — 1 am 
going to give the signal.' 

"'Stay, Monsieur ; stay. I must abso- 
lutely go ; and since there is only this coupe 
— but you'll let me have a sleeping-com- 
partment at the first station we come to ? ' 

" ' Yes, Madame.' 

" ' You'll telegraph for it ? " 

" ' Yes, yes, Madame.' 

" ' You promise me ? ' 

"' Yes, Madame.' 

" ' You are sure ? ' 

" ' Yes, yes, yes, Madame ! ' 

" The door was thrown open wide, and 
the little brown-haired lady, surrounded by 
half a carriage-load of parcels and wraps, 

arranged her parcels around her with the 
ordinary haste of persons who have long 
hours to pass in a railway-carriage. 

" She had one bag, two bags, three bags, 
and — as to wraps — ! 

" Out of the corner of my eyes I watched 
these little proceedings, and I observed with 
pleasure that she was a charming little 
personage. I say with pleasure ; for, in 
truth, it is always more agreeable to have a 
pretty woman for a travelling companion 
than an ugly one. 

" It was very cold. The country, covered 
with snow, and Jit up by a very pale-faced 
sun, flew rapidly by on either side of the 
carriage. The little lady, muffled up to her 
chin in rugs and other wraps, turned her 
ga^c obstinately out of the farther window ; 
the administrative gentleman put his 
papers, yellow, green, and blue, with printed 
headings, in order, and read them atten- 
tively ; as to myself, comfortably installed 
in a corner with my feet on the foot- 
warmer, I waded through the file of news- 
papers I had bought at the station to pass 
the time. 

" 1 1.2 1 ; Laroche. The train stopped. 
The administrative gentleman gathered up 
his papers, rose, bowed, and descended from 
the carriage. His feet had hardly touched 

entered the coupe ; 
we were off. 

" Gallantly the administrative gentleman 
seated himself by my side, so as to leave the 
opposite seat entirely at the service of the 
new arrival. 

"Without even turning her eyes towards 
us, flustered and red with anger, she 

shrill whistle, and — the platform before he was received by the 
station-master, who called him ' Mr. In- 
spector." The lady leaned out of the 
door : — 

" ' Mr. Station-master ! ' 

" ' Madame-? ' , f 

" ' They wc-re lo telegraph to yuu from 
Paris- for a sleeping-carriage. 1 ' 


77/A v Th'A \f> MA G AZINE. 

'' ' They have done sj, Madame, mid I 
have sent on the message.' 

" ' Sent it on 1 Am I not to have a 
sleeping-carriage at once, then ? ' 

H ' Impossible, Madame ; we have no 
carriages here. They can only furnish you 
with one at Lyons,' 

" ' At Lyons ! At what o'clock ? ' 

" ' At 5.45, Madame.' 

u * At the end of the journey '. But, 
Monsieur, I can't remain in this coupe until 
that time ! Impossible ! I wufi'i ! ' 

" 'Take care, Madame, the train is 
starting ! ' 

"It started, 

" She threw herself into her corner again, 
in a furious pet, without casting a glance at 
inc. I plunged once more into the con- 
tents of my newspapers — into the contents 
of the tenth, that is to say. 

" Shall I confess it ! That paper took me 
longer to read than its nine predecessors. 
Twenty times I began the same line; I 
believe that at least for some time the paper 
was upside down. Hang it, one can't be 
shut up for a long journey with a pretty 
woman without feeling some sort of 
emotion ! 

" I greatly wanted to enter into conver- 
sation with her, but what pretext for doing 
it could I find ? The classic resources of 
putting up or down the windows, in such a 
state of the temperature, were non-avail- 
able. What was there to do ? — launch a 
commonplace remark of some kind ? Bet- 
ter a hundred times keep silent than do 
that. My companion, I had seen at a 
glance with my Parisian eyes, was a woman 
of the best society. To speak tu her 
brusquely, without' being known to her, 
would have made me appear in her eyes no 
better than a vulgar commercial 
traveller. The only way of draw- ___ 

ing her into conversation would 
be to find something strikingly 
original to say to her ; but what ? 
— what ? I sought laboriously, 
but did not find. 

" I was still continuing that 
search, when the train stopped 
suddenly, thanks to the powers 
of the new break — so good 
against accidents, but so bad for 

" ' Tonnerre ! — t we n ty - fi v e 
minutes' stoppage ! ' cried a 
porter, opening the carriage-door. 

" My companion rose, threw 
off her rugs which, with her 

three bags, she left m the carriage, and 
descended on to the platform. It was 
noon. Hunger had begun to make itself 
felt. She moved towards the buffet on the 
left, across the line. 

" I followed her. I was then enabled to 
admire at my ease the elegance of her figure, 
well set off by a Jong fur mantle. I remarked 
also that she had a pretty neck, a grey felt 
hat, and very tiny feet. 

" At the entrance to the buffet stood the 
manager. Wearing a velvet cap and bear- 
ing a striking resemblance to Napoleon III., 
he pointed out with his hand and with a 
napkin a long table to betaken by assault. 

" I entered with a crowd of travellers — 
ruffled, hurried ; in short, that stream of 
persons essentially grotesque and deroga- 
tory to human beauty, of an express train, 
bent all on devouring food of some sort. 

" I seated myself and hastily swallowed 
the succession of dishes set before me : my 
lady traveller took some soup at a separate 

"I was amongst the first to rise, and 
went out upon the platform to smoke a 
cigarette. The twenty-five minutes — re- 
duced to twenty according to rule — were 
quickly spent. The passengers came in 
groups from the refectory and returned 
to their places in the carriages. I rein- 



stalled myself in mine. My fellow travel- 
ler did not appear. 

" 1 perceived her at the little bookstall 
on the opposite side of the line, looking 
over the volumes displayed. Although I 
could see nothing of her but her back, I 
easily recognised her by her pretty figure, 
her otter -skin mantle, and bur grey hat. 
Her hair seemed to be a little less dark than 
1 had imagined it to be ; but that was the 
effect of distance, no doubt. 

" All the passengers had resumed their 
seats, and the porters were banging-to the 

u l She'll be left behind ! ' I thought. 
' She's mad ! ' ( iMadame ! Madame ! ' I called 
to her out of the window. 

"She was too far off, and did not hear 

" The whistle 
sounded; the 
train was going 
to start. What 
was to be done ? 
Prompt as a flash 
of lightning, an 
idea shot through 
my brain. She 
would be left 
there in the hor- 
rible cold with- 
out her luggage ! 
Let her, poor 
woman, at least 
have her smaller 

"I gathered 
up, in an armful, 
her three bags 
and her rugs, and 
threw the whole to a man in 
the uniform of the railway, 
who was on the line near the 



H l For that 
there,' I cried. 

" The man in the uniform 
carried the articles in the 
direction of the lady at the 
bookstall. At the same mo- 
ment the carriage door on the opposite 
bide — the side next the platform — was 
opened, and my travelling companion, 
grumbled at by a station porter, hurried 
into the carriage, and the train started. 
Horror ! I had mistaken the traveller. 
The lady at the bookstall was not the 
right one ; the same mantle, same hat, 
sa::ie figure — but not she ! It is per- 

fectly absurd, how much women resemble 
one another — the back view of them. I 
had made a pretty mess of it ! 

(i She had hardly entered the carriage 
before she uttered a shriek. 

" ' My parcels ! Somebody has stolen my 
parcels ! ' 

" And, for the first time, she turned her 
eyes on me, with a look — good heavens ! — 
with a look never to be forgotten. 

"' No, Madame,' I stammered, 'your 
parcels have not been stolen ; they — they 
have been left behind at Tonnerre.' 
" ' At Tonnerre I How ? ' 
" I explained all to her. By Jove ! my 
dear fellow, I can't describe the second look 
she darted at me ; but, I assure you, I 
firmly believe I shall remember it even 
longer than the first. 

" ' T am distressed, Madame,' I further 
stammered, ' distressed exceedingly ; but 
the motive was a good one : I thought that 
you were going to miss the train — that you 
would be cold — and — and I did 
not wish that you should be 
cold ; in short — forgive me, 
and do not be uneasy in re- 
gard to youT property, which 
is in safe hands — a man in 
uniform. At the next station 
you can telegraph — we will 
"telegraph — and your things 
be immediately sent on. 
■\h ! — you shall have them, I 
vow, even though 
I have myself to 
go back to Ton- 
nerre to fetch 
them. 1 

" 'Enough, 
Monsieur ' I 
know what I have 
to do.' 

" Stormily she 
rearranged h e r- 
self in her cor- 
ner, tugging pet- 
tishly at her 

"But, alas , 
poor little thing ! she had counted without 
the cold — she no longer had her warm rugs 
and wraps about her. At the end of ten 
minutes she began to shiver. It was in 
vain that she tried to huddle herself up, 
to draw her otter-skin mantle closer to 
her form : she positively shivered with 
the cold. 



knees, to accept my rug. You will catch 
cold — and it will be my fault — and I should 
never, to the end of my days, forgive 
myself ! ' 

'" ' I did not speak to you, Monsieur,' 
she said, sharply. 

M I was nervous— excited. In the first 
place, she was charming ; in the next 
place, I was furiously annoyed with myself 
for the stupid blunder I had made : in short, 
I found myself in one of those predicaments 
that call forthetakingof strong resolutions. 

H ' Madame,' I said, ' accept this rug, or I 
swear to you I will throw myself out on to 
the line ! ' 

" And flinging the rug between her and 

me, I opened the 

window and 

seized the outer 

handle of the 


*' Was I deter- 

mined ? — be - 

tween ourselves, 

not altogether, I 

think ; but it ap- 
peared that I had the air of being so, for 

she instantly cried out : 

" ' You are mad, Monsieur, you are mad ! ' 
" ' The rug — or I throw myself out ! ' 
" She took the covering, and in a softened 

tone, said : 

" ' But you, Monsieur— you will catch 

your death of cold.' 

" l Do not be uneasy on my account, 

Madame, I am not in the least chilly — and, 

even if I should feel cold, it will only be a 

just punishment for my unpardonable 

' Say your over-hastiness ; for, as you 
have said, your motive was a good one. 
But how came you to mistake another lady 
for me ? } 

" ' Because she appeared to me charm- 

"She smiled. The ice was broken — the 
ice of conversation, that is to say ; for, in 
other respects, I was shivering with cold. 

u But how quickly I forgot the cold, the 
journey — everything ! She was delicious, 
exquisite, adorable ! She possessed a culti- 
vated mind, keen, gay, original ! She 
loved travel, like myself. In literature, 
in music, in everything in fact, we had 
the same tastes ! And then — only ima- 
gine ! — we found we had a heap of ac- 
quaintances in common ; she was intimate 
with the Saint-Chamas, with the Savenois, 
above all with the Montbazons ! Only to 
think that I had perhaps met her twenty 
times in their drawing-rooms without 
having noticed her ! Good heavens ! where 
had my eyes been ? 

" She spoke simply, amiably, 
with the frankness I so much love 
A slight, very slight, provincial 
accent, almost imperceptible, a 
chirp rather, giving to her pro- 
nunciation something of the sing- 
ing of a bird. It was intoxicating ! 
"But though I would have given 
all the world not to appear cold- 
great heavens, how cold I was i 

"At Dijon (2.20) my right foot 
was half frozen. We telegraphed 
to Tonnerre for the articles kit 

"At Macon (4.30) it was tin 
turn of my left foot. We received 
a message from Tonnerre, saying 
that the luggage would arrive in 
Marseilles next day. 

"At Lyon-Perranche (5.48) my 
left hand became insensible ; she for- 
got to demand her sleeping-carriage. 
"At Valence (8.3} my right hand followed 
the example of the left ; I learned that she 
was a widow and childless. 

" At Avignon (9.59) my nose became 
violet ; I fancied she had never wholly loved 
her first husband. 

" At Marseilles ( 1 2.5 a.m.) I sneered three 
times violently ; she handed me back my 
rug, and said graciously : ' Au revoir ! ' 
" ' Au revoir!' Oh, I was mad with 




" I spent the night at the Hotel de 
Noailles — an agitated night, filled with 
remembrance of her. The next morning, 
when I awoke, I had the most shocking 
cold in the head imaginable, 

" Could I, in such a state, present myself 
to my friends, the Rombauds ? There was 
no help for it ; it was one of the accidents 
of travel ; they must take me as I was, and 
to-morrow I would go and seek my cure in 
the sun of Nice. 

" Oh, my friend, what a surprise ! That 
good fellow Rom baud had invited a few 
friends in my honour, and among them 
was my charming fellow - traveller ! my 
charmer ! 

" When I was presented to her, a smile 
passed over her lips ; I bowed, and asked 
in a whisper : 

" ' Tonnerre — your parcels ? ' 

" 'I have them,' she replied in the same 

" We sat down to table. 

" ' What a cold in the head you have got, 
my dear fellow ! ' cried Rom baud, sympa- 
thetically ; i where the deuce did you pick 
it up — in the railway-carriage, perhaps ? ' 

'"Very possibly,' I said, * but I don't 
regret it I ' 

" Nobody comprehended the sense of 
this veiled reply ; but I felt the tender 
glance of my fellow-traveller reach me 
through the odorous steam of a superb 
tureen of soup majestically posed upon 
the table. 

" What more have I to tell you ? Next 
day I set off for Nice ; a fortnight hence I 
am to be married." 

Original from 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. 
Bv Private James Lamh, latk ijtij Hussaks (One of the Six Hundkld). 

SHE twenty- fifth of the present 
month is the anniversary of 
the Charge of the Light 
Brigade — an event never to 
be mentioned by Englishmen 
without a thrill of pride. 
We have thought that, at such a time, an 
account of the famous exploit, told in the 
words of one who actually took part in it, 
would be of interest to our readers. The 
following is a description of the famous 
charge, by Private James Lamb, who only 
just missed winning the Victoria Cross on 
that eventful day. 

On October 25, 1854, I was a trooper 
in the 13th Light Dragoons (now the 
13th Hussars), and was in the foremost 
squadron that led the attack on the Rus- 
sian guns on that never-to-be-forgotten 
morning. I was riding close to Captain 
Nolan when he was mortally wounded by 
one of the first shots from the enemy s 

guns. The gallant captain stuck to his 
saddle, and his horse galloped shoulder to 
shoulder with us down the valley. The 
next discharge from the Russian cannon 
tore wide gaps through our ranks, and 
many a trooper fell to rise no more. Owing 
to the dense smoke from the enemy's guns, 
I lost sight of Captain Nolan, and did not 
afterwards see him alive. 

We still kept on down the valley at a 
gallop, and a Cross-fire from a Russian bat- 
tery on our right opened a deadly fusilade 
upon us with canister and grape, causing 
great havoc amongst our horses and men, 
and mowing them down in heaps. 

I myself was struck down and rendered 
insensible. When I recovered conscious- 
ness, the smoke was so thick that I was 
not able to see where I was, nor had I the 
faintest idea what had become of the 
Brigade. When at last I made out my 
position, I found I was among numbers of 
dead and wounded comrades. The scene I 




shall never forget. Scores of troopers and 
their horses were lying dead and dying all 
around me, and many men severely wounded 
and unable to extricate themselves from 
their dead horses. Luckily for me, my 
horse was shot through the head, and, 
falling forward, pitched me clear. My own 
wound was not a very severe one, and I 
soon recovered sufficiently to endeavour to 
return to the British lines. 

Just as I made a start, I looked around 
and spied two companies of Russian Rifles 
doubling out from the right rear of the 
position where their guns were stationed, 
and, as they dropped on one knee to fire a 
volley up the valley, I laid down close to 
my dead horse, having its body between 
me and the firers. I was not a moment 
too soon, as I had scarcely sheltered myself 
before the bullets came whizzing around 
me, and literally riddled the dead body of 
my horse and its saddle. After the volley 

they were a body of Cossacks coming down 
to cut off our retreat ; but I quickly dis- 
covered that I was mistaken, and that the 
horsemen were two squadrons of French 
Dragoons charging down to silence a. 
masked Russian battery that was firing on 
our left flank, whose guns were covered by 
a regiment of Polish Lancers. This battery 
gave the gallant Frenchmen a warm recep- 
tion by means of canister and grape, by 
which a number of saddles were emptied. 
But riding swiftly on, despite their losses, 
they chaTged right up into, and cut their 
way through, the Polish regiment, and 
wheeling round to their right flank, rode 
off and made good their retreat. 

In the melee I saw a chance of capturing 
one of the stray horses of the French 
dragoon regiment whose rider had been 
killed, but before I could effect my purpose 
the animal bolted, and I was obliged to get 
along on foot. 


I ventured to look over my dead horse, 
thinking to see the enemy reloading to fire 
again ; but, to my surprise, I saw them 
mustering together quickly, and running to 
the rear of their guns. On turning round 
I saw a body of horsemen charging down 
the valley on my right front, and thought 

During the short time En which the 
French Dragoons and Polish Lancers were 
fighting, I managed to get some distance 
up the valley towards our lines, and when 
near No. 3 Redoubt I saw two men sup- 
porting a wounded officer of the 17th 
Lancers. One of the men was a trooper 



belonging to my own regiment, and the 
other was one of the 17th Lancers. The 
officer was faint and exhausted from loss of 
blood, and was feebly asking for water. 
Neither of the men who were helping him 
had their water-bottles with them, and 
mine had been shot through in the cross- 
fire when the Russians first opened fire 
upon us at the commencement of our 
deadly ride. 1 saw no chance of getting 
water other than by searching among the 
dead bodies on the battlefield. I accord- 
ingly retraced my steps, and was soon for- 
tunate enough to find a calabash, half full 
of water, strapped to a dead trooper's saddle. 
I snatched up this calabash, and, as I made 
my way back, pulled out the stopper and 
had a good drink, as I was frightfully 
parched myself. I had to get along as 
sharply as I could, for the enemy were 
again on the move ; but I succeeded in 
reaching the wounded officer without any 

As we were moving painfully along I saw 
a trooper of another regiment, who had 
been severely wounded, and another 
endeavouring to get him off the field, but 
they were getting along very slowly. I 
went to their assistance, leaving the two 
men with the wounded officer, whom they 
eventually succeeded in carrying safely from 
under fire. I afterwards heard that this 
officer died the next morning, after having 
had one of his legs amputated. My com- 
rade and myself managed to get the 
wounded trooper safely into our lines. 1 
then went in search of my regiment, and at 
last found what was left of it — only about 
half remained. We tvent into action that 
morning 1 1 2 strong and came out with only 
61. Of horses we lost 84, and had besides 
several wounded, some of which eventually 
recovered, while others had to be destroyed 
As a matter of fact, out of the 112 horses of 
my regiment which took part in the charge, 


mishap, and gave him the water, which he 
gratefully acknowledged, and, turning to 
us, said, " Men, leave me here, and seek 
your own safety." But wo would not 
leave him, and the other two troupers car- 
ried him off the field while 1 limped along 
by his side, ready to render any assistance 
I could, should the necessity arise. 

only one, named Butche:- (so called from 
the number and severity of its wounds), was 
brought back to England. This horse was 
presented to Her Majesty the Queen when 
the 13th Hussars embarked for India in 
[874, and was kept at Hampton Court until 
its death about ten years ago. Our two 
regimental duetors had their Irani.- iull that 


35 1 

day. They were very busy taking off a leg 
or an arm here, extracting bullets there, and 
dressing the wounds, more or less severe, of 
others. The roll of ray regiment had been 
called before I reached it, and I found I was 
reported " killed," or 4i taken prisoner," but 
I fortunately was neither, and am alive at 
the present moment, with the glory of 
being one of the survivors of ''The Charge 
of the Six Hundred."' 

I must not forget to mention that the two 
men who gallantly succoured the wounded 
officer and carried him safely off the field 
were, shortly after landing in England, 
awarded the Victoria Cross as a reward for 
their bravery and humanity. Such is the 
fortune of war, I myself just missed obtain-' 

ing it. The colonels of the regiments of 
the Light Brigade got one each to be pre- 
sented tu the most deserving man of each 
regiment. Some of the colonels made the 
remark that one man was as much entitled 
to it as another. Through going down 
the valley in front of the enemy and bring- 
ing Captain Webb, of the 17th Lancers, a 
drink of water, I was allowed to draw lots 
for it with Corporal Malone, of my 
regiment, who assisted Sergeant Berrymati 
to carry his officer off the field.* Malone 
being the oldest soldier got first draw, and 
drew the lucky straw. 

* A description of Sergeant Berryinan's feat, re- 
lated by himself, appeared in the March number of 
The Stkanu Magazine. 

Original from 

'o*>* ,--' ^ 




By " Rita," 

Author of " Skeba" u Gretckcn" "The Laird &' Cockpcn? "Dame Durdcn" &c. 


11 Brothers ok thk Brush," 

3HE studios stood in a meadow 
high above the quaint little 
fishing village of Trenewlyn. 
The meadow, which the pro- 
prietor had jestingly named 
" Le Champ des Beaux Arts," 
came suddenly upon one as a surprise on 
mounting the stony, dusky street that led 
up from the quay. The studios — three in 
number — were a still greater surprise, so 
modern and out of place they looked in this 
little old-world nook, where only fisher folk 
had lived and worked since the village had 

The streets were narrow and steep, and 
rudely paved with rough stones from the 
neighbouring quarry. The houses were 
piled in an incongruous fashion up the 
sloping hill, as if the builders had begun at 
the quay and gone on at intervals dropping 
these primitive dwellings heTe and there 
just as the fancy took them. History stated 
that the little village had suffered severely 
at the hands of the Spaniards in 1595, at 
which time these ruthless invaders had 
partly destroyed the beautiful old church 
which stood in the parish of Polwyn, about 
a mile off. 

The wide blue waters of the bay could 
be stormy and wild at times, and the 
fleet of brown-sailed fishing boats were glad 
enough of the shelter and anchorage formed 
by the solid stone sea wall that stretched 

out right and left of the little harbour. It 
was a pretty sight to see them resting on 
the pebbly beach, or rocking on the soft rise 
and fall of the waves, or again standing out 
to sea like a flock of dark-winged birds, 
while the groups of women and children 
stood watching on the quay for a last look 
or smile from some stalwart lover, or father, 
or husband. They had their hours of peril, 
those bronzed and hearty toilers, for the 
coast was rough and dangerous, and the 
risk of life and its many hardships but 
poorly compensated. But, for all that, they 
were contented and cheerful folk, and ap- 
parently satisfied enough with their primi- 
tive life and surroundings. There was much 
that was picturesque and quaint about the 
little hamlet, and wonderful beauty of bay 
and coast, where the wide blue sea rolled 
bold and unbroken to the Lizard Point, 
And the varying lights and shadows, the 
quaint dusky houses, the steep streets, the 
groups of fishermen with their brown nets 
drying in the sun, the occasional and un- 
common beauty of the women, which was 
curiously Spanish in type and colour! ng — 
all these were the delight and inspiration 
of many an artist who had strayed thither 
by chance, to stay often enough from 

So, in course of time, it entered the mind 
of one Jasper Trenoweth, owner of the old 
manor house of Trenoweth, and accounted 
by the country folk as a somewhat eccentric 
individual: to buy the waste piece of meadow 
land that commanded so unrivalled a view, 




and build thereon a set of studios for the 
benefit of such artists as cared for marine 
subjects. The studios had been built and 
tenanted for some years, and the place itself 
had acquired considerable favour among 
the li Brothers of the Brush." Jasper Tre- 
noweth was a man of great culture and of 
artistic tastes. He had travelled much, 
read much, and, in an unobtrusive and 
almost unrecognised manner, done an im- 
mense amount of good to members of a 
profession which he held in high reverence 
and esteem. Indeed, he himself had worked 
and studied as an artist in his youth with 
no inconsiderable success. But of late years, 
and, strangely enough, since the first year 
that the studios had been completed and 
opened, Jasper Trenoweth had never 
touched brush or pencil. He gave no 
reason, but then he was a man too reserved 
and cold to give confidence easily. A few 
friends dear to him by association, or kindred 
tastes, were all he ever asked to the lonely 
old mansion on the hi II -side, where for 
nearly two centuries the Trenoweths had 
been born, and dwtlt, and died. He was 
the last of that race ; a man living quite 
alone, with no ties of family, and very few 
friends. He made good and generous use 
of his wealth, but always in an unobtrusive 
manner that few suspected. To artists in 
their days of strug- 
gling and despair 
he had ever been a 
friend, but he con- 
ferred benefits so 
delicately that it 
would have been a 
difficult matter to 
trace them back to 
his hand. A cold 
man, a cynical 
man, a man scant 
of praise, intolerant 
of feebleness, so 
said the art world ; 
but here and there 
some nature would 
recognise the deep 
tenderness and no- 
bility of this un- 
known benefactor ; 
would learn that 
no man held genius 
in greater rever- 
ence, or gave to it 
more ready help, 
even as his scath- 
ing words and bit- 

ter contempt held up to scorn all that was 
imitative and mediocre. 

Five years had passed since the studios 
had been tenanted — four since that strange 
rule had been framed and published by 
their owner that they would never be let 
to a woman artist. He was very strict on 
this point. He would give no reason, and 
suffer no questioning, but the rule, once 
made, had been rigidly adhered to. 

Various tenants had held the studios 
from time to time, some remaining but a 
few months, others for a year or more. 
One artist, however, a young Irishman, 
celebrated for his sea pieces, and a great 
favourite with Jasper Trenoweth, had held 
his studio ever since they had been opened. 
This young man knew more of the cyni- 
cal and reserved owner than any of the 
u art brotherhood '' to whom his tall figure, 
and grave stern face, and quiet merciless 
criticisms were familiar. 

As far as it was in him to unbend to, or 
care for anyone, Jasper had unbent to Denis 
O'Hara : perhaps because the bright sunny 
nature and genial temperament were so 
unlike his own — perhaps because he re- 
cognised in the youth of five-and-twenty 
those possibilities which had once allured 
himself, and knew that he, too, loved 
art more than fame, in an age when 

iffinal from 



men care all for fame and little for 

For five years the two had been con- 
stantly together, save for some months when 
Jasper Trenoweth would be travelling in 
Italy, or Switzerland, or Norway. It was 
after returning from one of these tours that 
one evening Jasper Trenoweth took his way 
down the hillside to the studios. 

The general room where the artists 
usually sat and smoked and drank coffee in 
the evenings, was bright with lamplight and 
firelight as he opened the door, and stood for 
a moment on the threshold looking at the 
group round the fireplace. 

They sprang up at his advent to give him 
a warm welcome. Brushes had been laid 
aside, easels forsaken. On the morrow the 
pictures destined for acceptance or rejection 
at the Royal Academy would be on view to 
the village folk, or gentry around. Hard 
work was over for a time. It remained to 
be seen what its results would produce. 

" Welcome, welcome. Just in time !" rang 
out cheerily as the well-known face looked 
back at them. 

"I suppose you've come to see what 
we've been doing," said Denis O'Hara, 
shaking him warmly by the hand. " You 
couldn't have hit on a better time, only — " 
he stopped and glanced round at his com- 
panion?, a momentary chill and embarrass- 
ment on his bright face, and in his usually 
gay young voice. 

" Only — what ? " said Jasper Trenoweth, 
his deep tones sounding less stern than 
usual as he glanced round at the familiar 

A small table stood by the fire-place. It 
was littered over with sketches, and it 
seemed to him that the eyes of these " Bro- 
thers of the Brush " had suddenly turned 
to that table, and its loosely scattered con- 

Denis O'Hara seemed to constitute him- 
self spokesman, " Sit down, 1 ' he said, "and 
I'll tell you in what schoolboy fashion wc 
were going to amuse ourselves. You see 
those sketches, ... we found them in that 
cupboard yonder, and after some valuable 
and impartial criticism — which you've 
missed — we agreed to relate each a story of 
the origin or subject of one particular sketch, 
to be r-elcctcd bv vote." 

11 A good idea and interesting, if you tell 
the truth," said Jasper Trenoweth. " You 
must not let my visit interfere with your 
proposed amusement." 

He came forward and stood by the little 

table, looking down with grave unsmiling 
eyes at the scattered suggestions before him. 
Idly enough his hand turned over the 
various sheets. The three men resumed 
their chairs and pipes. They were used to 
his visits and his ways, and accepted them 
without remark. Denis O'Hara alone of 
the group watched the face that was bent 
over the sketches, watched it with that 
sense of interest and speculation that it had 
always aroused in his breast. It was usually 
S3 calm and impressive a face that he was 
startled to see it suddenly flush darkly, 
hotly to the very brow, as the hand so 
idly moving among the scattered sheets 
turned up one and seemed arrested by that 

A quiver as of pain, or the memory of 
pain, disturbed the usually impassive fea- 
tures. Jasper Tre no weth's eyes flashed keen 
and startled on the young and earnest face 
so intently watching him. 

" Who — who did that ? " he asked 




Denis O'Hara glanced at the sketch. "It 
is mine," he said, simply. 

For a moment the man who had asked 
that question stood silent and still, gazing 
down at the picture in hishand, his thoughts 
and memories centred in something it had 
recalled. Something — a dream, a hope, a 
memory ? 

Ah ! even men, the coldest and hardest 
of men, may have one such dream, one 
such hope, one such memory. " So it 
is yours, that sketch," said Jasper Tre- 
noweth. " But it is unfinished. Lend me 
your pencil, Denis ; you may have the credit 
of the sketch, but I think I alone could tell 
the story aright." 

"And you will, you will!*" cried Denis 
O'Hara eagerly. " How often I've wanted 
to know — how often I've wondered. Tre- 
noweth, don't think me intrusive or curious, 
but you know that old folly — the romance 
of that first year we spent here — if only I 
knew what had becomt of — her ! " 

For a moment Jasper Trenoweth was 
silent. The others now roused and won- 
dering were looking at him, and at Denis, 
marvelling at the unwonted excitement of 
the one, the disturbance of the other. Then 
they saw the pencil working rapidly over 
the panel that Jasper Trenoweth held. No 
one spoke. Swiftly with unerring certainty, 
with that firmness and ease which bespoke 
certain knowledge and artistic skill, the 
sketch grew and lived before their eyes, and 
Denis O'Hara, breathless and wondering, 
watched it as no one else watched it, for to 
him it meant what it could never mean to 
anyone else, or so, in youth's blind egotism, 
he imagined. 

Then with a deep-drawn breath, almost 
a sigh, Jasper Trenoweth handed him the 
sketch, and took the vacant chair placed for 
himself. ** 

The face of the young artist grew pale as 
he looked at the little picture. 

It was so simple, so unpretentious, and 
yet it might hold so tragic a meaning. 

He looked questioningly at his friend. 
"I — I cannot understand," he said hesi- 
tatingly. " I could not tell the story from 
this now." 

A faint smile quivered on those pale set 
lips of Jasper Trenoweth. " No ? " he said. 
" But the sketch was yours ; describe it." 

" A — a large room, one it seems of many 
rooms. Pictures cover the wall. Before 
one picture a group of figures standing. 
Behind the group a man, his frame bent, 
almost crippled it seems, leaning on a 

woman's arm. I — I know the woman — I 
made this sketch of her long years ago — 

but " 

" I know what you would say," inter- 
rupted Trenoweth. " Tell the story of that 
woman as you know it. I will finish it." 


"19 on the Line." 
Denis O'Hara kept the sketch in his hand, 
and glanced at it from time to time as he 

" When I first came here," he said, " I 
had the place all to myself. I came in one 
of those fits of enthusiasm at which you 
all laugh. I had determined to do a great 
work, and I found everything here I 
wanted — light, views, climate, and models. 
Our friend Trenoweth introduced me to the 
place, gave me inestimable hints, and (no 
use shaking your head, Jasper ; you shall 
not always hide your light under a bushel) 
in every way made me at home and com- 
fortable. We were much together, for he 
was, or said he was, interested in my work, 
and approved of my subject. Sometimes 
I painted out of doors, favoured by the soft, 
grey light and equable climate, for which 
this place is famous. Sometimes I would 
work in the studio, and often, taking pity 
on my loneliness, Trenoweth would drop 
in here in the evenings, and we would talk 
— as he alone can make anyone talk. 
Altogether it was very pleasant, and I am 
not sure that 1 felt pleased when one even- 
ing he strolled down here to show me a 
letter he had received from one of our 
fraternity asking to hire a studio for three 
months in order to complete a picture. 

" The handwriting was bold and clear ; 
the signature at the end of the simple, 
concise words only 'M. Delaporte.' We 
discoursed and speculated about M. Dela- 
porte. We wondered if he was old or 
young, agreeable or the reverse ; if he 
would be a bore, or a nuisance— in fact, we 
talked a great deal about him during the 
week that intervened between his letter and 
his arrival. Trenoweth saw to the arrange- 
ments of the studio. It was No. II. he had 
agreed to let, and gave directions as to 
trains, &c, and then left me to welcome 
the new comer who was to arrive by the 
evening train. I had been out all day, and 
when I came home tired, cold, and hungry, 
I saw ligh ts in No. II., and thought to myself, 
' My fellow artist has arrived, then.' 
Thinking it would be only civil to give him 

35 6 


welcome, 1 walked up to the door aiid 
knocked. A voice called out, ' Come in ! ' 
and, turning the handle, I found myself in 
the presence of — a woman ! For a moment 
I was too surprised to speak. She was 
mounted on a short step-ladder, arranging 
some velvet dra- 
peries, and at 
my entrance she 
turned and, with 
the rich-hued 
stuffs forming a 
background for 
the pose of the 
most beautiful 
figure woman 
could boast of, 
faced me with as 
much ease and 
composure as — 
well, as I lacked. 

"'Mr. Tre- 
nowcth ? ' she 
asked inquir- 

"Her voice 
was one of those 
low, rich, con- 
tralto voices, so 
rare and so beau- 
tiful. 11 

His own voice 
trembled ; he 
glanced again at 
the sketch in his 
hand. "But then 
everything about 
her was beautiful 
and perfect. That 
says enough. 'I'm not Mr. Trenovveth,' I 
said, ' I'm only an artist living in the next 
studio. I — I came here to see if Mr. Dela- 
porte had arrived ; I beg your pardon for 

"'Do not apologise,' she said frankly. 
1 This studio is let to me, and you are very 
welcome. 1 

'"To you ? ' I said somewhat foolishly. 
' I thought you were a man.' 

" She laughed. ' I have not that privi- 
lege, 1 she said, 'But I am an artist, and 
art takes no count of sex. I hope we shall 
be friends as well as neighbours,' 

" I echoed that wish heartily enough. 
Who would not in my place, and with so 
charming a companion ? There and then 
I set to work to help her arrange her studio 
and fix her easel. The picture seemed very 
large, to judge from the canvas, but she 

would not let me see it then. I forgot 
fatigue, hunger, every thing. I thought I 
had never met a woman with so perfect a 
charm of manner. The ease and grace and 
dignity of perfect breeding, yet withal a 
frank and gracious cordiality was as 
^__^___ winning as it was 
resistless. But 
there — what use 
to say all this ! 
Only when I once 
begin to talk of 
Musette Dela- 
porte I feel f 
could go on for 

" That was a 
memorable even- 
ing. When the 
studio was ar- 
ranged to her 
satisfaction, she 
made me some 
tea with a little 
spirit - lamp ar- 
rangement she 
had, and then we 
locked up the 
room, and I took 
her through the 
little village to 
try and find 
lodgings. Of 
course, Jasper 
and 1 having de- 
cided that M. 
Delaporte was a 
man, had ex- 
pected him to 
rough it like the rest of us. I could not let 
her stay in Trenewlyu itself, but took her 
up the hill-side to a farmhouse, where I felt 
certain they would accommodate her. She 
was in raptures with the place, and I agreed 
with her that it was a paradise, as indeed 
it seemed to me on that August night. I 
remember the moon shining over the bay, 
the fleet of boats standing out to sea. the 
lights from the town and villages scattered 
along the coast, or amidst the sloping hills. 
I did not wonder she was charmed ; we all 
have felt that charm here, and it doesn't 
lessen with time ; we all have acknowledged 
that also. , . . But 1 must hurry on. 
When Trenoweth heard of the new aTtist's 
sex he was rather put out. I could not see 
why myself, and I agreed that the mistake 
was our own. M might stand for Mary, 

or Ma; 

or Maris.' 

U-aji^st as well as 



for Maurice, or Malcolm, or Mortimer. 
However, when he came down and saw 
M. Delaporte here, I heard no more about 
the disadvantages of sex. She was essen- 
tially a woman for companionship, cultured, 
brilliant, artist to her finger-tips, yet with 
all her beauty and fascination, holding a cer- 
tain proud reserve between herself and our- 
selves, marking a line we dared not overstep. 
At the end of a month we knew little more 
about her than we did on that first evening. 
I opined that she was a widow ; but no 
hint T however skilful, no trap, however 
baited, could force her into confidence or 
self- betrayal. We called her Mrs. Dela- 
porte. Her name was Musette, she told me. 
Her mother had been a Frenchwoman ; of 
her father she never spoke. She worked 
very hard, often putting me to shame, but 
still she would not let me see the picture, 
always skilfully turning the easel so that 
the canvas was' hidden whenever Jasper or 
mvself entered the studio. We were never 
permitted to do so in working hours, but 
when the daylight faded, and the well- 
known little tea-table was set out, we often 
dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat. It 
was all so pleasant, so homelike. The 
studio, with its draperies and its bowls 
of flowers, its plants, and books, and 
feminine trifles . . . I — I wonder how it 
is some women seem to lend indi- 
viduality to their surroundings. . . . The 

studio has never looked the same since she 
left. . . ." 

He paused, and laid down the sketch. 
The usual gaiety and brightness of his face 
was subdued and shadowed. 

M I — well, it's no good to dwell on it all 
now," he said abruptly. si Of course I fell 
madly in love with her. Who could help it ? 
I bet any of you fellows here would have 
done the same. I neglected work. I could 
only moon and dream and follow her about, 
when she let me, which I am bound to say 
was not very often. I'm sure I used to 
bore Trenoweth considerably at that time, 
though he was very patient. And she was 
just the same always : calm, friendly, 
gracious, absorbed in her work, and to all 
appearances unconscious of what mischief 
her presence had wrought. As the third 
month drew near to its end I grew desperate. 
I thought she avoided me, she never let 
me into the studio now, and I must confess 
I had a great curiosity to see the picture. 
But she laughingly evaded all my hints, and 
would only receive me at the farmhouse. 
I believe Trenoweth was equally unsuccess- 
ful. At last I could stand it no longer. I 
spoke out and told her the whole truth. Of 
course, 1 ' and he laughed somewhat bitterly, 
" it was no use. If she had been my 
mother or my sister she could not have 
been more serenely gracious, more pitiful, 
or more surprised. I — I had made a fool of 




studio was closed, and Trenoweth had 
gone away. The man left in charge 
and who made the arrangements for 
letting them, told me that a new rule 
had been made by their landlord. They 
were never to be let to women artists. 
That is all my part of the story. This — 
this sketch is only the figure 1 remember. 
She was standing once just like that, look- 
ing at the wall of the studio, as if to her it 
was peopled with life, and form and colour. 
1 1 — I was fancying myself at the Academy,' 
she said to me, as I asked her at what she 
was gazing, ' at the Academy, and my 
picture on the line.' I do not know if she 
ever attained her ambition," he added. 
11 1 have never seen or heard of her since." 

He glanced at Jasper Trenoweth, who 
silently held out his hand for the sketch. 

For a moment silence reigned through- 
out the room. The eyes of all were on the 
bent head and sad, grave face of the man 
who sat there before them, his thoughts 
apparently far away, so far that he seemed 
to have forgotten his promise to finish the 
story which Denis O'Hara had begun. 

At last he roused himself. " There is not 
much more to add," he said slowly. " All 
that Denis has said of Musette Delaporte is 
true, and more than true. She was one of 
those women who are bound to leave their 
mark on a man's life and memory. After 
Denis left so abruptly I saw very little of 
her. She seemed restless, troubled, and 
disturbed. Her mind was absorbed in the 
completion of her picture. That unrest 
and dissatisfaction 
which is ever the 
penalty of enthu- 
siasm, had now 
taken the place of 
previous hopeful- 
ness. ' If it should 
fail, 1 she said to 
me. 'Oh, you 
don't know what 
that would mean. 
You don't know 
what I have staked 
on it.' 

" Still she never 
offered to show it 
to me, and I would 
not presume to ask. 
I kept away for 
several days, think- 
ing she was best 
undisturbed. All 
artists have gone 

through that phase of experience which 
she was undergoing. ... It is scarcely 
possible to avoid it, if, indeed, one has any 
appreciation for, or love of, art in one's 

" At last, one day I walked down to the 
studio. I knocked at the door. , . . There 
was no answer. I turned the handle, and 
entered. In the full light of the sunset, as 
it streamed through the window, stood the 
easel t covered no longer, and lacing me, as 
I paused on the threshold, was the picture, 
I stood there too amazed to speak or move. 
... It was magnificent. If I had not 
known that only a woman's hand had con- 
verted that canvas into a living breathing 
history, I could not have believed it. There 
was nothing crude or weak or feminine 
about it. The power and force of genius 
spoke out like a living voice, and seemed to 
demand the homage it so grandly challenged. 
Suddenly I became aware of a sound in the 
stillness — the low, stifled sobbing of a 
woman. ... I saw her then, thrown face 
downwards on the couch at the farthest end 
of the room, her face buried in the 
cushions, her whole frame trembling and 
convulsed with a passion of grief. 'Oh, 
Maurice I ' she sobbed, and then again only 
that name—' Maurice ! Maurice! Maurice ! ' 
H I closed the door softly, and went 
away. There seemed to me something 
sacred in this grief. . . . I — I could not 
intrude on it. She was so near to Fame. 
She held so great a gift . . .and yet she 
lay weeping her heart out yonder, like the 
weakest and most foolish 
of her sex, for — well, what 
could I think, but that 
it was for some man's 

He paused, his 




voice seemed a little less steady, a little less 

" On the morrow,' 1 he said abruptly, " she 
was gone, leaving a note of farewell, and — 
and thanks for me. I felt a momentary 
disappointment. I should like to have said 
farewell to her, and it was strange, too, 
how much I missed her and Denis. The 
loneliness and quiet of my life grew more 
than lonely as the days went on, and I at last 
made up my mind to go to London. Whether 
by chance or purpose I found myself there 
on the day the Academy opened, All who are 
artists know what that day means for them. 
I — well, I was artist enough to feel the 
interest of art triumphs, and the sorrow of 
its failures. I went where half London was 
thronging, and mingled with the crowd, 
artistic, critical, and curious, who were 
gathered in the Academy galleries. I 
passed into the first room. I noticed how 
the crowds surged and pushed and thronged 
around one picture there, and I heard 
murmurs of praise and wonder from scores 
of lips as I, too, tried to get sight of what 
seemed to them so marvellous and attrac- 
tive. At last a break in the throng favoured 
me. I looked 
over the heads of 
some dozen 
people in front 
of the picture, 
and I saw — the 
picture I had 
gazed at in such 
wonder and de- 
light in the 
studio of Musette 
Delaporte ! De- 
servedly hon- 
oured, it hung 
there on the line, 
and already its 
praises were , 
sounding, and j 
the severest critics i 
as well as the 
most eager en- 
thusiasts were 
giving it fame. 

" I turned away 
at last My steps 
were, however, 
arrested on the 
outskirts of the 
crowd by sight of 
a woman whose 
figure seemed 
strangely fami- 

liar. Her face was veiled and some- 
what averted, but I knew well enough 
that pose of the beautiful head, that coil 
of gold brown hair, just lifted from the 
white neck. She — she did not see me as 
for a moment I lingered there. Then I 
noticed she was not alone. Leaning on her 
arm was a man, his face pale and worn, as 
if by long suffering, his frame bent and 
crippled. As his eyes caught the picture I 
saw the sudden light and wonder that 
leaped into his face. I saw, too, the glory 
of love and tenderness in hers. I drew 
nearer, the man was speaking : ' How could 
you do it/ he said, ' how could you ? ' 
' Oh, Maurice, forgive me,' said that low, 
remembered voice. ' Dearest, are we not 
one in heart and soul and name ? I only 
finished what you had so well begun. You 
were so ill and helpless, and when you went 
into the hospital, oh, the days were sn long 
and so empty. I meant to tell you, but 
when it was finished I had not the courage, 
so I just sent it, signed, as usual, M. Dela- 
porte. I — I never dared to hope it would be 
accepted. After all, what did I do ? The 
plan, the thought, the detail all were yours, 
only my poor 
V weak hand 

worked when 
yours was help- 

I was so close 

""': - . I heard every 

word, so close 
that I saw him 
bend and kiss 
with reverence 
the hand that 
she had called 
poor and weak, 
so close that I 
heard the low 
|£\ breathed mur- 

mur from his 
lips, ' God bless 
and reward 
you, my noble 
wife ! ' " 

B And she was 

married all the 

/ time ! "said Denis 

V- i plaintively. "She 

V\'.. I might have told 

us ! " 

Jasper Tre- 
noweth was 
w-w£a9i&ALtoin silent. 

Notes on Jonathan's Daughters. 

By Max O'Rell. 

• N an article on 
t "The Typical 
American," which 
appeared in The 
North American 
Review (May, 
1890), I ventuied Co 
hazard the opinion 
that the typical 
American does not 
exist, as yet : that 
the American gentle- 
man differs not at all from 
a gentleman of an}'' other 
Ulitry, and that no citizen of 
e Great Republic can be pointed 
out as typical, although in the 
ordinary American are to be found 
two traits which are very charac- 
teristic of him, and of other dwellers in new 
countries, viz., childishness and inquisi- 

But, although I failed to find a typical 
American man, I am very strongly of 
opinion that the American lady is typical, 
Good society is apt to mould all who fre- 
quent it into one pretty even shape, and it 
is all the more astonishing, therefore, to find 
the American lady with such a separate 

Of the ordinary American woman I am 
not in a position to speak. In my wander- 
ings through the United States I made 
acquaintance with all sorts and conditions 
of men ; but, coming to the petticoated por- 
tion of the community, I had practically no 
opportunity of studying any but ladies. 

The American lady, in my eyes, is a dis- 
tinct type ; her charm is distinct from the 
charm of any European lady, and is cer- 
tainly equal in extent to any. Two traits 
struck me very forcibly in her, and to the 
first of these I think she owes a great part 
of her success. They are, naturalness, or 
utter absence of affectation, and— shall I say 
it? — a lurking contempt for man. Not a 
militant contempt, not a loud contempt, 
but a quiet, queenly, benevolent contempt. 
1 talk about her owing her success to the 
first of these ; but who shall say whether 
her triumphant progress has not been 
greatly due to the second ? 

I have often tried to explain to myself 
this gentle contempt of American ladies for 
the male sex ; for, contrasting it with the 
devotion, the lovely devotion of Jonathan 
to his womankind, it is a curious enigma. 
Have I found the solution at last ? Does 
it begin at school ? In American schools, 
boys and girls, from the age of five, follow 
the same path to learning, and side by side 
on the same benches. Moreover, the girls 
prove themselves thoroughly capable of 
keeping pace with the boys. Is it not 
possible that the girls, as they watched the 
performances of the boys in the study, have 
learnt to say ; " Is that all ? " while the 
young lords of creation, as they looked on 
at what "those girls" can do, have been 
fain to exclaim : H Who would have thought 
it ? " And does not this explain the two 
attitudes ; the great respect of men for 
women, and the mild contempt of women 
for men ? 

* * # * 

When I was in New York, and had time 
to saunter about, I would go up Broadway, 
and wait until a car, well crammed with 
people, came along. Then I would jump 
on board, and stand near the door. When- 
ever a man wanted to get out, he would 
say to me, il Please, " or " Excuse 
me," or just touch me lightly to warn 
me that I stood in his way. But the 
ladies ! Oh, the ladies ! Why, it was 
simply lovely. They would just push me 
away with the tips of their fingers, and 
turn up such disgusted and haughty noses ! 
You would have imagined it was a heap of 
dirty rubbish in their way. 

Just as one of the hardest ways of earn- 
ing a living is to be a middle-cla^s English 
wife, so one of the loveliest sinecures in the 
world is to be an American lady. A small, 
sometimes no, family to bring up ; very 
often no house to keep ; three months 1 
holiday in Europe ; a devoted, hardworking 
husband ever ready to pet her, worship her, 
and supply the wherewith ; an education 
that enables her to enjoy all the intellectual 
pleasures of life ; a charming naturalness 
of manner ; a freedom from conventionality ; 
a bold picturtsoue: :£•»!; of speech ; a native 




brilliancy ; all combine to make her a 
distinct type, and the queen of her sex. 

j;: * ■* * 

When a Frenchman and a Frenchwoman 

converse together, they can seldom forget 

that one is a man and the other a woman. It 

does not prove that a Frenchwoman must 

necessarily be, and is, affected in her rela- 
tione with men ; but it explains why she 

does not feel, as the American woman does, 

that a man and a woman can enjoy a 

tite-a-tete free from all those commonplace 

flatteries, compliments, and platitudes that 

badly understood gallantry suggests. Many 

American ladies 

have made me for- 
get, by the easiness 

of their manner, 

and the charm and 

naturalness of their 

conversation, that 

I was speaking with 

women, and with 

lovely ones too. 

This I could never 

have forgotten in 

the company of 

French ladies. 
On account of 

this feeling, and 

perhaps also of the 

difference which 

exists between the 

education received 

by a man and' that 

received by a 

woman in France, 

the conversation 

will always be on 

some light topics, 

literary, artistic, 

dramatic, social, or 

other. Indeed, it 

would be most un- 
becoming for a man 

to start a very serious subject of conversa- 
tion with a French lady to whom he had 

just been introduced. He would be taken 
for a pedant or a man of bad breeding. 

In America, men and women receive 
practicallv the same education, and this of 
course enlarges the circle of conversational 
topics between the sexes. I shall always 
remember a beautiful American girl, not 
more than twenty years of age, to whom I 
was once introduced in a New York draw- 
ing-room, as she was giving to a lady sitting 
next to her a most minute description of 
the latest bonnet invented in Paris, and 

who, turning towards me, asked me point 
blank if I had read M. Ernest Renan's last 
book, u The History of the Peqple of Israel." 
Well, I had not. I had to confess that I 
had not yet had time to read it. But she 
had, and she gave me, without the remotest 
touch of affectation or pedantry, a most 
interesting, detailed, and learned analysis 
of that remarkable book, almost in one 
breath with the description of the Paris 
bonnet. I related this incident in "Jona- 
than and his Continent." On reading it, 
some of my countrymen, critics and others, 
exclaimed : " We imagine the fair American 
girl wore a pair of 
gold spectacles." 

" No, my dear 
compatriots, no- 
thing of the sort. 
No gold spectacles, 
no guy. It was 
a beautiful girl, 
dressed with the 
most exquisite taste 
and care, and most 
charming and 

An American 
woman, however 
learned she may 
be, is a sound poli- 
tician, and she 
knows that the best 
thing she can make 
of herself is a 
woman, and she 
remains a woman. 
She will always 
make herself as 
attractive as she 
possibly can, not to 
please men, to please 
herself. If in a 
row me away." French drawing- 

room I were to re- 
mark to a lady how clever some woman 
in the room looked, she would probably 
closely examine that woman's dress to find 
out what I thought was wrong about it. 
It would probably be the same in Englaml, 
but not in America. 

A Frenchwoman will seldom be jealous 
of another woman's cleverness. She will 
far more readily forgive her this quality 
than beauty. " Oh ! how I should like to 
be a man ! " once exclaimed a French lady 
in my presence. An American lady would 
probably have said to her : " My dear, you 
an. evtr su much belter as you arc ! " 




Of all the ladies I have met, I have no 
hesitation in declaring that the American 
ones are the least affected. With them, I 
repeat it, I feel at ease as I do with no other 
women in the world. 

With whom but an Atnericaine would 
the following little .scene have been possible ? 

It was on a Friday afternoon in Boston, 
the reception-day of Mrs. X., an old friend 
of my wife and myself. I thought I would 
call upon her early in the afternoon, before 
the crowd of visitors had begun to arrive. 
I went to her house at half- past three. 
Mrs. X. received me in the drawing-room, 
and we soon were 
talking on the 
one hundred and 
one topics that 
old friends have 
on their tongue 
tips. Presently 
the conversation 
fell on love and 
lovers. Mrs. X. 
drew her chair 
up a little nearer 
to the fire, put 
the toes of her 
little slippers on 
the fender-stool, 
and with a charm- 
ingly confiden- 
tial, but perfectly 
natural, manner, 
said : — 

" You are mar- 
ried, and love 
your wife ; I am 
married, and love 
my husband ; we 
are both artists, 
let's have our say 

And we pro- 
ceeded to have 
our say out. "»«»' 

But, lo! all at 
once I noticed about half an inch of the 
seam of her black silk bodice was unsewn. 
We men, when we see a lady with some- 
thing awry in her toilette, how often do 
we long to say to her : " Excuse me, 
Madam, but perhaps you don't know that 
you have a hairpin sticking out two inches 
just behind your ear,'' or, (i Pardon me, 
Miss, I'm a married man, there is something 
wrong just under your waist belt." 

But we dare not say so. We are afraid 
we shall be told to mind our own business. 

Now, I felt for Mrs. X., who was just 
going to receive a crowd of callers, with a 
little rent in one of her bodice seams, and 
tried to persuade myself to be brave, and 
tell her of it. Yet I hesitated. People 
take things so differently. The conversation 
went on unflaggingly. More than once I 
had started a little cough, and was on the 
point of — but my courage failed. The clock 
struck half- past four. I could not stand it 
any longer. 

iL Mrs. X.," said I, all in a breath, " you 
are married, and love your husband ; I am 
married, and love my wife ; we are both 
artists ; there is 
a little bit of 
seam come un- 
sewn just there 
by your left arm, 
run and get it 
sewn up ! " 

The peals of 
laughter that I 
heard going on 
upstairs while the 
damage was being 
repaired, proved 
to me that there 
was no resent- 
ment to be feared; 
but, on the con- 
trary, that I had 
earned the grati- 
tude of Mrs. X. 

I have said, is 
a characteristic 
feature of Ameri- 
can men ; but I 
imagine that this 
feature is also to 
be found in the 
daughters of the 
Great Republic. 
now*" During my 

second visit to 
the States, it amused me to notice that the 
Americans to whom I had the pleasure of 
being introduced, refrained from asking me 
what I thought of America, but they in- 
variably inquired if the impressions of my 
first visit were confirmed. 

One afternoon, at an " At Home " in 
Boston, I met a lady from New York who 
asked me a most extraordinary question. 

"I have read 'Jonathan and his Con- 
tinent,' " she said to me. " I suppose that 
is a bqok dIMmprjdsfcioils written for pub- 




lication. But now, tell me en confidence, 
what do you think of us ? " 

" Is there anything to that book, 1 ' I re- 
plied, " which can make you suppose that 
it is not the faithful expression of what I 
think of America and the Americans ? " 

" Well," she said, " it is so complimen- 
tary, taken altogether, that I must confess 
I had a lurking suspicion of your having 
purposely flattered us, and indulged our 
national weakness for hearing ourselves 
praised, so as to make sure of a warm 
reception for your book." 

"No doubt," I ventured, " by writing a 
flattering book on any country, you would 
greatly increase your chance of a large sale 
in that country ; but, on the other hand, 
you may write an abusive book on any 
country, and score a great success among 
that nation's neighbours. For my part, I 
have always gone my own quiet way, 
; rather than opiniating, and 
with the ain 

when I write, it is not with the aim of 
pleasing any particular public. I note down 
what I see, say what I think, and peopie 
may read me or not, just as they please. 
But I think I may boast, however, that my 
pen is never bitter, and I do not care to 

criticise unless I feel a certain amount of 
sympathy with the subject of my criticism. 
If 1 felt that I must honestly say hard 
things of people, I would alwa3 : s abstain 

u Now," said my fair questioner, " how is 
it that you have so little to say about our 
Fifth Avenue folks ? Is it because you 
have seen very little of them, or is it be- 
cause you could only have said hard things 
of them ? " 

u On the contrary," I replied, " I saw a 
good deal of them, but what I saw showed 
me that to describe them would be only to 
describe polite society, as it exists in London 
and elsewhere. Society gossip is not in my 
line, boudoir and club smoking-room scandal 
has no charm for me. Fifth Avenue re- 
sembles too much Mayfair and Belgraviato 
make criticism of it worth attempting." 

I knew this answer would have the efTect 
of putting me into the lady's good graces at 
once, and I was not disappointed. She ac- 
corded to me her sweetest smile, as I bowed 
to her, to go and be introduced to another 
lady by the mistress of the house. 

The next lady was a Bostonian. I had 
to explain to her why I had not spoken of 

'miff 1 

Original from 



Beacon Street people, using the same argu- 
ment as in the case of Fifth Avenue society, 
and with the same success. 

* • * * 

At the same il At Home," I had the 
pleasure of meeting Mrs. Blank, whom 
I had met many times in London and 

She is one of the crowd of pretty and 
clever women whom America sends to 
brighten up European society, and who re- 
appear both in London and Paris with the 
regularity of the swallows. You meet them 

European society during every recurring 

American women have such love for 
independence and freedom that their visits 
to Europe could not arouse suspicion, even 
in the most malicious. But, nevertheless, 
I was giad to have heard of Mr. Blank, be- 
cause it is comfortable to have one's mind 
at rest on these subjects. Up to now, 
whenever I had been asked, as sometimes 
happened, though seldom : " Who is Mr. 
Blank, and where is he ? " I had always 
answered : " Last puzzle out ! " 

everywhere, and conclude that they must 
be married, since they are styled Mrs., and 
not Miss, But whether they are wives, 
widows, or divorcers, you rarely think of 
inquiring, and you may enjoy their acquain- 
tance, and even their friendship, for years, 
without knowing whether they have a 
living lord or not. 

Mrs. Blank, as I say, is a most fascina- 
ting specimen of America's daughters, and 
that day in Boston I found that Mr. Blank 
was also very much alive, but the com- 
panions of his joys and sorrows were the 
telephone and the ticker ; in fact, it is 
thanks to his devotion to these that 
the wife of his bosom is able to adorn 

The freedom enjoyed by American women 
has enabled them to mould themselves in 
their own fashion. They do not copv any 
other women, they are original, t can 
recognise an American woman without 
hearing her speak. You have only to see 
her enter a room or a car, and you know 
her for Jonathan's daughter. Married or 
unmarried, her air is full of assurance, of 
a self-possession that never fails her. And 
when she looks at you, or talks to yoti, her 
eyes express the same calm consciousness of 
her worth. 

Would you have a fair illustration of the 
respective positions r.f women in France, in 



Go Lu a hotel, and watch the arrival of 
couples in the dining-rooms. 

Now, doirt go to the Louvre, the Grand 
Hotel, or the Bristol, in Paris, Don't go 
tu Claridgti's, the Savoy, the Victoria, ur 
tfie Metropole, in London. Don't go to 
Delmonieo's in New York, or the Thorn - 
dyke in Boston, because in all these hotels, 
you will probably run the risk of seeing all 
behave alike. Go elsewhere, and, I say, 

In France, you will see Monsieur and 
Madame arrive together, walk abreast 
towards the table assigned to them, very 
often arm in arm, talking and smiling at 
each other — though married. Equal foot- 

In England, you will see John Bull 
leading the way. He does not like to be 
seen eating in public, and thinks it very hard 
that he should nut have the dining-room all 

to himself. So he enters, with his hands in 
his pockets, looking askance at everybody 
right and left. Then, meek and demure, 
with her eyes east down, follows Mrs. John 

But in America ! Oh, in America, be- 
hold, the dignified, nay, the majestic entry 
of Mrs. Jonathan, a perfect queen going to- 
wards her throne, bestowing a glance on her 
subjects right and left — and Jonathan 
behind ! 

They say in France that Paris is thu 
paradise of women. If so, there is a more 
blissful place than paradise , there is another 
word to invent to give an idea of the social 
position enjoyed by American ladies. 

If I had to be born again, and I might 
choose my sex and my birthplace, I would 
shout at the top of my voice : 

" Oh ! make me an American woman ! " 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 



BOKN 1826. 

Ex -Em- 
press of the 
y(j French, 
was born in Granada 
May 5, 1826. Her 
father was an officer 
in the Spanish army ; 
her mother, Doha 
Maria Kirkpatriek, 
was descended from a 
Scotch family who 
had fled to Spain after 
the fall of the Stuarts. 
Eugenie's childhood 
was spent at Madrid, 
but she was afterwards 
sent to school in Eng- 
land, and resided with 
her mother for some 
time in London. 
When she was t wenty- 
five she paid a long 
visit to Paris, where 

i a ! 0. A 

her great beauty and 
intellectual gifts won 
the heart of Napoleon 
III. The marriage 
was celebrated with 
great magnificence on 
January 29, 1853, at 
Notre Dame, In 
1856, the year in 
which our first por- 
trait represented her, 
at the height of her 
remarkable beauty, 
the Prince Imperial 
was born, who, in 
our second portrait, 
is shown at the age of 
seven at his mother's 
knee. On June I, 
1879, occurred the 
gTeat sorrow of her 
life, when the Prince 
Imperial was killed bv 
the savages in South 
Africa, Her Majesty 
now lives in retire- 
ment at her mansion 
at Farnhnrouch. 





Born 1836, 
FULL account of Mr, Gilbert's 
life appears in the present num- 
lr^ ber. recounted for the most part 
by himself — a fact which lends 
additional interest to this series 
of portraits, but which renders it unneces- 

sary to enter in this place into any par- 
ticulars of his career. The first of our 
portraits shows Mr, Gilbert as a lawyer, 
the second in the uniform of a captain of 
the Royal Aberdeenshire Highlanders, the 
third as the author of several successful 
plays, and the last as the most original 
and popular writer of comic operas now 
living Original from 



Born 1812. 
\ A M U E L 
I born at 
was educated as a 
surgeon, but abandoned 
the profession at about 
the date of our first 
portrait to become 
editor of The Leeds 
Times. He had already 
written his first book, 
''Physical Education." 

/Vofh a Plioto, fcy] 

In 1845 he became 
secretary of the Leeds 
and Thirsk Railway, 
which, ten years later, 
he left for the South- 
Eastern Railway. All 
this time he was put- 
ting forth his popular 
books, and at the date 
of our second portrait 
had just written per- 
haps the most popular 
of them all, « Self- 
He! p.' ' Fen- men have 
had the privilege of 
addressing a wider 
audience than has Dr. 




■ X Jl 



; -.;^^B 






wrote and published much verse — nearly Lilt 
(jf it anonymously. But he became sat i> lied 
in his own mind that he had no genuine gift 
uf poetry, and he resolutely gave up any 
attempts at verse. Born and brought up 
in a seaport town, he was in his early days 
passionately fond of yachting, rowing, atid 

justin McCarthy, m.p. 

Born 1830. 
BR. JUSTIN Ml CARTHY, accord- 
1 ing to the account uith which 

he has